


i can't seem to find out where my footing is. (so don't let me cave in).

by badmeetsevil



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Baking, Cats, Coffee Shops, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Date, Flirting, Getting Together, Holding Hands, I Love You, Internal Monologue, M/M, Napping, Past Child Abuse, Pet Names, Self-Doubt, The Breakfast Club Brings The Gays Together, The Great Gatsby Brings The Gays Together, Touch-Starved, Watching Someone Sleep, hair petting, reassurance, so much fucking flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25502599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badmeetsevil/pseuds/badmeetsevil
Summary: Or, five times Tom showed Will physical affection, and one time Will reciprocated.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 41
Kudos: 78





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> title from don't let me cave in by the wonder years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important note! will has an unnamed anxiety disorder in this! it's unnamed because i am not a professional in any anxiety except for my own! i'd rather not call it one thing and have it come across as something else, hence the vague "anxiety" tag!!! 
> 
> joe blake im so sorry that i made you straight but it's for plot purposes only

It starts with university. It always seems to start with university. 

An overcrowded lecture hall, a disinterested teacher, a large PowerPoint in a classical literature class that reads “ _THE GREAT GATSBY: WHAT ABOUT IT?_ ” and a student in front of him who appeared to be drawing on MS Paint was where William Schofield felt like he belonged. He could sit there in the comforting drawal of a professor’s stern and seemingly bored tone of voice, take his notes, and feel at peace with himself. 

Then, a shorter gentleman came into the mix. A shorter gentleman with questioning eyes and furrowing brows and a Star Wars sticker on his laptop. 

“Do you get any of this?” His whispered voice had asked on a Wednesday afternoon. 

Will was halfway into a note about _The Great Gatsby_ ’s deeply rooted American Dream subtext, something that he had enough knowledge about not to take notes on, but decided that for the time being, it would likely be in his best interest to do so regardless. Will met the man’s eyes, and nodded his head. 

“Thank Christ,” he mumbled, a bit exacerbated, taking the seat next to Will and dropping his laptop and his book next to him as quietly as possible. Of course, with his frantic course of action, trying to find someone to assist him, he stumbled a bit and dropped a pen in front of him. With a mumble of a swear, he ducked underneath one of the tables to retrieve it, trying to be as quiet as possible, as to not disturb anyone but Will, apparently. 

“I’m Joe,” he had quickly tacked on.

“William, or, uh, Will.” 

“Good to meet you, Will,” Joe smiled, a seemingly genuine smile that Will tried to return, but he could feel how his muscles moved in an odd way, making it seem less than genuine. He went to physically correct himself, but Joe was already speaking. “I’ve seen how impressive you are with this type of stuff, Hobbs doesn’t stop goin’ on about you when I see him. It’s a bit mind blowing actually. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come up to you. Do you?”

Will shakes his head, a bit overwhelmed and a bit unsure of how to react. 

Joe gestures vaguely between his book and his laptop and the room and… everything. “I don’t understand… any of this American Dream bullshit, do you?”

Will nods, attentive. “It’s my favorite piece of literature,” Will had calmly replied, barely speaking above a murmur, as to not disturb any of the few people scarcely spread around them, “I can help you.”

Joe’s eyes seemed to shine, and he shut them, looked up to the sky, and barely choked out a _thank you_. He looked back at Will, that shine still there, and he asked, “Could I take a look at your notes?” Will handed him them as a response, and Joe took them, not without a silent _thanks_ before quickly began reading over them, making notes on his laptop as he went through. Will took minor notes on his hand as Joe used his book, genuinely not bothered by his use of his book at all. 

The professor seemed to sense that people were not getting it, and rather than explain it further like some may expect, dismissed the class entirely. “Fuck,” Joe had whispered under his breath. 

“You can take the book, if you’d like,” Will had offered, knowing it was a dumb idea but not wanting this man to go without notes or without what he needed for this class. 

Joe shook his head, furrowed his brows like what Will had just told him was more the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard in his entire life. “Give me your phone,” Joe requested, and Will searched in his pockets for it, fishing it out along with a coin, “I’m gonna put my number in this, and text… myself…” Joe took pauses as he did so, “and, if I need assistance, or if you need anything, we could get in contact?” 

Will blinked, a bit confused by his forwardness. If it weren’t for the girl that he saw looking in their direction, seemingly waiting for Joe, he would’ve assumed Joe were hitting on him. He still can’t help the embarrassed form of a stutter that comes out of his throat, a half response to a statement he half heard, “Uh, sure, y-yeah, sure.” 

“That’s great, man, thank you.” He went off, without another word, hand in hand with the blonde girl. 

Will stood there, looking at the phone in his hand, at the text message that just said _will_ to a contact that just read _joe, classic lit_. He tapped on the screen a few times, a quick message of _Do you want to meet tomorrow to study?_

Joe texted back almost immediately, a quick _absolutely yes please thank you_. It made Will smile, and he tucked his phone back into his trousers pocket. 

This was just a few weeks ago, and they have had about three study sessions since then. Will had no idea how their professor could spend four whole weeks on _The Great Gatsby_. Not that he was complaining, not at all, but he could see how the light in people’s eyes died when they entered this room every few days for their hour long lecture about how the American Dream wasn’t real. Will loved this novel, but he could see why people didn’t. 

Will’s written papers upon papers upon papers about the subtext of _The Great Gatsby_ since year 9 just for fun, and now just two years from graduating university, he would honestly not be surprised if there were a dozen or so. Even with his intense love of the novel, he can see why others would find it dreadfully boring.

Joe was one of those people.

Joe didn’t appreciate long descriptions or dialogue that Fitzgerald was very interested in using, or any subtext that came with specific colors or a pair of eyes on a billboard. He simply wanted to pass this class, and get it over with, so he didn’t have to take it for another semester. “I honestly hate classic literature,” he told Will confidently over a cup of tea in Joe’s two bedroom flat, “more of a modern man myself.”

Will nodded, and drank his tea. 

This session was particularly quiet, for no particular reason. Joe was just very interested in reading this part of the book, and finishing his paper, which Will didn’t mind. Will loved the silence, loved hearing the turning of a page or the clicking of his friend’s keyboard. It was relaxing, and reminded him of a quiet night in his flat. 

Will found himself getting lost in his book again, drifting off to visualize the long descriptions and whoever his Nick Carraway was. He wondered about love and about dreams and about if the American Dream was achievable and he thought about all of the young people who would be exposed to _The Great Gatsby_ as children like he was and spend months trying to figure out why exactly that novel was so powerful. He found himself getting so lost that he would zone out and not do what he was meant to do: help Joe. 

Joe had to wave his hand in front of Will’s face for a moment at one point, with a laugh and a whistle. “Come back, man,” He laughed. Will snapped back with a shake of his head, and blinked back into his body. He apologized profusely, blushing a light pink on pale cheeks, and Joe assured him it was no big deal. He apologized again. 

The session went on, like it had several times before. Will helped himself to a biscuit in a bowl in the middle of the table while he was reading. 

Joe looked up from the book at the sound of the tin rustling, and he smiled. “My mother made those,” he said, a bit proud, “think they’re an old family recipe. Mum always used to make ‘em with Tom before we moved out.”

“Your brother?” Will asks, trying to remember, hand hovering in front of his mouth politely as he chewed on the biscuit. It was sweet, not overly sweet, and was starting to stale. It wasn’t bad, so Will didn’t say anything. Not like he would say anything about it regardless.

Joe nodded. “He’s at work right now, I believe. He’s a waiter at some local place down the way.” Joe gestures vaguely to the outside of the room with a limp wrist, and it makes Will laugh a little under his breath.

He goes back to silently eating and studying, and Joe goes back to his paper, only breaking the silence to ask Will a question every now and again, or to read something off to Will and ask how it sounded. The comfortable silence was nice, Will could honestly fall asleep.

“What have you got?” 

A voice asks from behind Will, a voice coated in a thick layer of sleep, startling him a bit and causing him to jump a bit in his seat. Footsteps of sock-clad feet approach the dining room table, and Joe looks up from his book. “Nice to see that you’re alive!” He remarks, a joking smirk gracing his face. 

“Fuck you,” The figure laughs as he comes into Will’s vision. 

He’s a younger boy, younger than Joe, probably no older than twenty, and clearly related to him. His hair is unkempt, curled and messy from a night of sleep, and eyes that are getting used, once again, to the light of morning. He blinks and rubs the back of his hand over one of them, trying to rid himself of the remnants of sleep. He’s wearing a black hoodie, maybe two sizes too big for him, a pair of sweatpants, and a pair of black socks. 

Will can’t stop looking at him. 

“What have you got?” The figure asks again. 

Will’s throat goes dry. 

“Chocolate biscuits,” Joe tells him, picking one up and extending it his way, “want one?” 

The younger boy quickly takes it with a smile, and before biting it, dramatically remarks, “You’ve got all the biscuits to yourself, leaving me to starve in my room!” 

Will swallows hard. 

“It’s your fault for sleeping ‘til noon, cunt.” 

“It’s not noon, is it?” The younger man scurries over to the analog stove clock, and leans in to read it clearly. He makes a fake little gasp, and throws his head back, “Oh, it is! Alas, my entire day is ruined, all because I have slept past typical morning hours!” He turns around on his heels after Joe laughs and catches Will’s gaze, and he stops, straightens himself. “Oh!” He remarks, a smile gracing his lips, and a hand goes up to play with his hoodie string, “Who might you be?” 

Will forgets all forms of speech. He might as well get kicked out of his English classes, because the way this boy smiles at him and the way he fiddles with his hoodie string and the way he gently ways on his feet has Will forgetting every single thing he’s ever learned about language. His mouth opens and closes a few times, much like a fish out of water, before Joe catches on.

Joe looks at him, blinks hard, and shakes his head. He tacks on for him, “His name is Will, he’s barely got a fuckin’ brain for much else other than literature when we get started.”

“Sorry,” Will apologizes, mostly to the still unnamed boy standing in the kitchen, but also somewhat to Joe.

“‘S alright, no worries,” He replies, and he wanders back towards the table, quickly claiming a seat. _Oh no_. “What are you two on about?” He asks, before a light switch seems to go off in his head, “Oh! You’re the bloke who’s going to help my brother not fail a simple course!” His voice is loud and jolly, and Joe slaps him on the back of the head. 

“Shut it, you!” He says in a fake angry tone, and the younger man laughs as he touches the back of his head in feigned pain. Joe looks at Will almost apologetically, and he tacks on, “this is my younger brother, I honestly thought he was at work.” 

He sticks his hand out over the table to Will, and he beams a smile at him, “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Tom.” 

Will stares at his hand for a moment, forgetting what he’s supposed to do, before his hand scrambles out from under the table and clasps Tom’s. “I’m William, Will, pleasure’s all mine,” he says, and he’s honest. In this few second exchange of pleasantries, Will gets a good look at Tom.

He does look like a splitting image of Joe, just a few years younger. His eyes are a sea that one could get lost in, that Will is almost afraid to get lost in. His eyelashes are long, almost unbelievably long, like a girl would typically have. They frame his round eyes beautifully, giving him almost a model-like quality about them. Will wants to connect the dots and see all the constellations he could make out of the freckles on his face. 

Tom smiles at him, removes his hand, and Will wants to go and take it again. 

“Yeah,” Joe starts, “Will’s here to make sure that I’m literate enough to pass classics. Aren’t you, Will?” 

Will looks at him, snaps out of a daydream he began to have where he made Tom breakfast in bed. “Oh, yes, of course,” He answers, almost robotically, and he wants to slap himself across the face for acting like such a fool. 

“What are the two of you reading?” Tom asks curiously, and he reaches over to touch Will’s book, to lift up the cover and read the title. The tips of his fingers graze over Will’s so quickly that he’s surprised he doesn’t gasp at it. He does recognize how his heart starts to beat a bit faster. “ _The Great Gatsby_ , oh, Joey, you’re gonna love it!” Tom exclaims. 

“It’s Einstein’s favorite novel,” Joe gestures at Will with his tea when he says _Einstein_ and Will can’t help but feel a bit of a tinge of pride. He is smart! This is his favorite book! He does feel a bit childish after that, however. 

Tom looks at him, and his smile makes his cheeks raise up, “Is it really?” Will nods, and Tom looks at him, looks him up and down, from his thin-wire reading glasses to his well-fitting casual button-up to his hair that Will suddenly wants to go up and fuss around with and try to fix. Tom leans in on the table, props his elbows up and rests his head on top of a platform made out of his hands. “How familiar are you with the subtext?” He asks. 

Joe rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his tea, “Here we go.” 

“Quite a bit, depends,” Will answers honestly, a bit surprised at how coherent he’s being, and Tom’s eyes perk up. 

“What do you think happens between Nick and Mr. McKee at the end of chapter two?” 

The question comes across as a typical classroom discussion question, something to just get the students talking about the novel, to prove that they’ve read it. In fact, Will’s had many discussions about this novel, and even this question in particular. He’s written a paper about the queer subtext in Fitzgerald’s novel, and this scene was a big part of beginning his argument that Nick Carraway is, in fact, not heterosexual. 

But, when Tom asks it, and he looks at him with those big ocean eyes, and he cocks his head to the side like he’s actually listening, Will forgets everything about The Great Gatsby. 

“I’m sorry, who?” 

He knows who Tom is talking about, he knows his own personal explanation of the situation in the novel, but his brain is running at a mile a minute. A cute boy is asking him a question about his favorite novel that he’s deeply infatuated with and he’s just touched his hand so gently and he’s expected by whatever God looms over the planet and whoever controls his consciousness to just _answer_ him? 

Tom lets out an angelic little laugh, “The man that Nick is naked and in bed with at the end of chapter two? He’s smoking a cigarette by the window?” 

“Tom. fuck off!” Joe laughs, and Tom slaps him on the shoulder. 

“I’m just trying to talk to him!” Tom remarks with another angelic laugh that Will wants to make his ringtone, “Gosh, Joey, you’re so against the idea of me being friends with your friends!” He laughs and when he gets up goes to slap him on the back of the head. Joe ducks out of the way just in time, and Tom mutters an explicative under his breath. 

“I should get going, actually,” Will tells them, quiet, trying not to make an attachment to this kind bloke with the lovely eyes and the smile and the laugh that makes him feel relaxed. He quickly scrambles to put his books into his messenger bag, and Tom rocks on his feet idley. 

When Will finally stuffs his old and tethered copy of _The Great Gatsby_ back into his back, along with his notebook and his laptop, Tom speaks up. “I could walk you out!” He smiles, his voice almost like a song. 

He can’t see it but Will can feel how Joe rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Will, for the help with the paper,” Joe says, and it’s sincerity in his eyes when Will meets them. Will gives a half smile and he nods, muttering out how it’s no problem and that he’ll be back another day, and he’ll proofread his paper. Joe tells him, “You’ve got time, lad, don’t push yourself.”

Will smiles, appreciative. 

Tom walks Will to the door with a little bit of a pep in his step, decidedly too much pep for a man who has only been awake for probably twenty minutes and has only eaten half of a chocolate biscuit for breakfast. “You really like literature, don’t you?” Tom asks, even though Will knows that he already knows the answer. 

“Quite a bit, actually,” Will says and he worries that it comes across as sarcastic or insincere but that’s broken down a bit by Tom’s little laugh. 

“So I’ve heard,” Tom tells him, “Joe’s told me about the papers you’ve written, apparently you’re a bit of a genius, so I’ve heard, at least. Could be wrong.” 

“Don’t believe I would call myself one,” Will adds on, and he’s not putting himself down, he just genuinely believes that he would not be considered among the greats, as much as he would like to be. He doesn’t have nearly as much experience or nearly as much talent or nearly as much universal acclaim. He can thank a primary school teacher who told him his sentences were too “lengthy” to be considered good for breaking his spirit. It was silly, but it stuck with him. 

“Maybe you can prove it to me?” Tom asks, as he leans on the doorway and a smile.

 _This,_ Will thinks, _is flirting. Actual flirting._

Will looks at him, and his freckled nose and his smile with his one crooked tooth that Will finds to be way too endearing and way too adorable to properly think and his almost baby-smooth face, and Will wants to tell him he’s beautiful, but his words are too lost in his throat and he’s too afraid of making him uncomfortable so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even physically respond to the advance that Tom makes. He just sort of… blinks. 

“I’d like to give you my number, if that’s alright?”

Will forgets how to speak. Speaking is no longer among the list of things that William Schofield knows how to do. Thinking is out of the question as well. If Will could think, maybe he could form a sentence, or make a noise, or a facial expression. But, all he does is stare for a moment. And he worries that Tom finds him strange or that Joe has wandered back into the room and has found him being a freak with his brother. 

It takes an almost full six seconds, the longest six seconds of Will’s life, for him to answer.

“I’d like that.”

Tom’s smile is infectious, and one of a smaller variety takes form on Will’s face, as he sticks his hand out for Will’s device. Will gladly hands it over with a hand that he hasn’t realized has been shaking until this very moment. He tucks his hand into his jeans pocket self-consciously, and stands there for a moment. He looks down, looks at his phone screen from higher up, through the mess of loose curls that is Tom’s hair. 

Tom puts his contact name as _tom!_ with a few select emojis, like the cherry blossom and the blushing happy face. It enchants Will more than anything, and he smiles shyly at Tom. Tom’s smile is still there, loosely hanging on his face like it’s resting there. “Will I hear from you?” Tom asks, almost hopeful, somewhat scared.

“Of course,” Will responds too quickly for his own liking. 

But, Tom beams. “Wonderful!” He opens the door for him, and adds on a joke, sounding nervous as he does so, “You know, if you said ‘no,’ I would’ve had to have killed you.” Will laughs a little, feeling himself relaxing when he hears the joke leave Tom’s lips with that nervous infliction, and he observes how Tom goes to play with a hoodie string after he says this. He’s nervous. 

Tom plants a warm hand on Will’s shoulder without warning. Will’s body runs hot and cold at the same time. 

It’s new, a weighted heat on his shoulder, but it’s not bad. It’s nice. The casual physicality of it is nice. It’s the squeeze that knocks the wind out of Will, and turns his cheeks bright pink, and makes him look at the carpet of the flat. Tom smiles, “I’ll talk to you soon, I hope.”

Will nods, and Tom removes his hand, and Will wants to grab it again, plant it back on his shoulder, and shrink a few inches shorter so that Tom doesn't have to reach. 

God, does that make him a freak? Is it bad that he liked that? Is it bad that he thought of that? Is it not normal to think that way about people who show you basic fucking kindness? He wants to apologize and slap himself in the face and maybe shout at himself, but Tom smiles at him, at his heated up cheeks, and he takes his hand out of his pocket. “Bye, Tom,” Will says, sweet. 

“Bye, Will!” Tom says, with a smile that could seemingly power a small village. 

Tom shuts the door. Will’s hand goes up to touch the lingering remaining phantom feeling of Tom’s hand on his shoulder. He smiles.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s adorable. Will wants to throw his phone out of the cab window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gay people get ready for will being the literal embodiment of gay panic
> 
> new tags: first date, coffee shops, flirting, hand holding, self-doubt, internal monologue

Will and Tom start texting the night after they properly meet. 

Will knew that in the first day of speaking to Tom, he had developed a crush. He wasn’t surprised. He was surprised that this was an actual crush, though. He’s fallen for people on the tube everyday. The woman in the ankle length coat, the man in the sunglasses, the person with the stretched ears, the man with the platforms, these were all visuals of people that he had seemingly fallen in love with everyday. 

Is it a crush when you imagine waking up next to them every morning? Or when you imagine taking them furniture shopping when you purchase a house? Or is that maybe just infatuation? Are these feelings meant for him? God, he’s known him for a day. At least with the people on the tube, he simply wanted to hold their hand, maybe take them for a drink.

With Tom, it was so different. 

With Tom, he wants to make him laugh. He wants to make him smile. He wants to show him all the things that make him happy. He wants to learn the things that he’s passionate about. He wants to teach him and be taught in return. He wants to understand all the little things that make him tick. He wants to memorize his coffee order. He wants to know his favorite flowers. He wants to hold his hand. He wants to pull him close under an umbrella when it starts to downpour. He wants late nights with warm cups of cocoa. He wants to kiss him before bed and kiss him when they wake up. Christ, it’s been a day.

But, Tom asks him out on the third day. Maybe he feels a similar way. God, Will can only hope he’s not being creepy. 

Friday night, Will and Tom go to a movie. It’s some action movie that Will isn’t all too familiar with or really interested in. They get a big bucket of popcorn and Tom admits that he’s the type of person who dumps M&Ms into his popcorn. It’s another thing that Will becomes fascinated with, for whatever reason. He thinks about Tom the entire movie. 

Their arms are close to each other during the movie, Tom’s hoodie sleeve rubbing up against Will’s bare arm. Their pinkies are touching, and Tom’s crosses over Will’s at one point. 

Will tries so hard to pay attention to the movie, to the fast cars and the pretty girls and the buff leads and anything that _isn’t Tom’s pinky resting on top of his._

He thinks he’s gotten over their touching pinkies, then the two of them reach into the popcorn bucket together. Their fingers bump together, a bit awkward, but it sets Will’s skin on fire in the best way possible. “Sorry!” Tom whispers, with a big grin on his face, and Will wants to slam his head through a wall. He wants to tell him it’s fine, that he could hold his hand if he wanted. 

He wants to hold his hand so bad.

He says absolutely nothing. 

He wants to slap himself. 

“What did you think?” Tom asks when the lights come up and the credits roll.

Will wishes he could tell him a single thing that happened the entire movie. “It was fun,” he says, perfect for someone who couldn’t remember anything in the film except for a fast car and a pretty blonde girl. Wait, he should… make conversation here. “What did you think?” He tacks it on at the end of his statement.

Tom shrugs, “Was alright, a bit boring, a bit disappointing.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says before he thinks. 

Tom laughs, “You didn’t make the damn movie, Will.” 

Will laughs, but he’s worried it sounds mechanical or robotic or otherwise not real. 

Tom calls a cab to get home, and Will waits with him in semi-awkward silence under the lights of the front of the theater. Tom watches the sky, like he’s looking for answers, and Will suddenly feels painfully boring and uncomfortably average. He goes to speak, say something, anything to him, but a car horn blares out. “That’s my ride!” Tom smiles, and Will wishes he were dead, “I’ll text you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Will replies, and he mentally prepares himself for no text. Tom waves when he gets into the cab. When he drives off, certainly safe inside of the car and on his way home, Will calls his own cab. 

Tom texts him before he even hangs up the phone.

_i don’t think i made a very good decision in picking a movie for our first date )-: wanted to talk to you! should we get coffee tomorrow?_

Will stares at the text in his notifications. It’s strangely comforting, it grounds him almost. To exist in another person’s mind so much that he immediately texted him after being out of his sight for only a few seconds was a bit strange, but he loved it. He smiled at the text, and spent several minutes testing the waters with different texts. 

Then Will realizes something.

Tom’s called this a date.

He tries not to think about it, but he does. He thinks about it _hard._

_Sounds lovely. Where would you like to go?_

No, no, he already said where. He deletes it.

_I’d like that a lot. What time?_

He hates the way it sounds. He deletes it.

_Sounds great. Eight o’clock work for you?_

He hates it, but his taxi pulls up, and she honks the horn, and he sends it. Nerves flow through him as he gets in the back seat, tells her his address, and she begins to drive. He wills away the tremor in his hands from nerves, and he feels pathetic for it, for being so worked up over a text message. 

He almost jumps when his phone vibrates in his hands. In fact, he’s so visibly moved by it that the driver looks back at him through the mirror. “Are you alright, son?” She asks. 

He nods, “Yes, I’m sorry.” 

She furrows her eyebrows at him in confusion, but makes no further attempts to communicate. 

Will taps his phone password in quickly, and scrolls down his notifications tab. He lets a shaky breath that he didn’t even realize he was holding exit him when he reads the positive reaction. 

_that sounds lovely! could you meet me by mine and joe’s? there’s a lovely shop a few blocks from there, i think you’d really like it! lots of live music, if you’re into that!_

Will comes to realize that he thinks he’d like anything that Tom suggested to him. He types quickly before his nerves and anxiety can tell him anything different. 

_I love live music. I will see you at eight. Text when you’re home?_

Will worries a bit that he’s overstepping a boundary when he asks Tom to text him when he’s home. He doesn’t want to come across as creepy, not at all, he just wants to make sure that Tom is safe. It’s late in the night, and he’s in a cab by himself. He almost wishes he took the cab with him, so that if either of them got mugged, it could’ve been him. 

He almost texts Joe to relay an apology for him to Tom, but then the little cherry blossom emoji is popping down on his screen.

_[image attached]_

A beat, and then another message is coming through.

_i’m home! nice and safe! you text as well, alright? want you being safe too!!_

Will clicks on the messages, and it’s a photo of Tom in his bed. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are a bit red from the bitter winter air, and his hair is disheveled from wind. He’s wearing that big goofy smile that Will finds something new to love in every single time he sees it. He’s back in his comfy clothes, the big black hoodie that he was in the first day that he met him. 

He’s adorable. Will wants to throw his phone out of the cab window for falling this hard this fast. 

He wants to save the picture as his lock screen, then he worries about if Tom saw it, and if he would find it creepy. But, he never wants to stop looking at this picture. 

Should he… flirt back? Was this even flirting? Should he even look deeper into it? Maybe he should just wait until he gets home to text him again. But, he can’t stop looking at the photo that Tom sent. At his messy curls and his pink cheeks and his red nose and his shining eyes and his laughing smile and all the stars of freckles on his face. 

Fuck it.

_You look very cute._

Will deletes cute.

_You look very nice._

Will deletes nice. 

_You look very handsome._

He sends it. Tom’s response is almost immediate.

_thank you!! :-D you looked really handsome tonight too!_

Will blushes deep red in the back of the cab, the world melting away until the driver pipes up for her payment. Will scrambles in his pockets for some spare notes and coins, handing them over, likely giving her a decent tip, since he didn’t bother to check the notes with his brain swimming all over the place.

Will’s in his flat, standing in the bathroom mirror, trying to take a halfway decent picture of himself. He takes so long that he wonders if Tom’s starting to think that he’s been murdered by his cab driver. He settles on one where he looks halfway decent, and sends it. 

_Made it home. I had a very nice night with you._

Tom’s a very fast texter, Will comes to the conclusion very quickly, almost as quickly as Tom texts. 

_so handsome! :-) i had a lot of fun with you tonight and i can’t wait for tomorrow!_

Will sleeps with a smile on his face that night. 

\---

Will sits on their porch at seven fifty-six that night. He’s just texted Tom that he’s arrived, when in actuality he was so afraid of being late, he arrived fifteen minutes ago. Tom is stumbling out of the door a few minutes later, with a rushed out, “Sorry, sorry!” 

He looks great, very casual but very fitting. A warm wool sweater with a long sleeve t-shirt underneath, nice fitting jeans, and boots. He looks very warm, almost cuddly. Will feels overdressed in his long coat and casual trousers, but when Tom looks him up and down and smiles, he feels a tinge of pride. 

They begin to leave, but not before Joe throws open the upstairs window and shouts, “You two be safe!” Tom flips him off, and they both laugh about it. 

The coffeehouse is nice. They make small talk for the most part. Will learns a lot more about Tom than he thinks Tom learns about him. He feels a bit bad about it, about his shyness or his quiet demeanor or however someone else would put it other than just flat out calling it his anxiety, but Tom makes a comment about Will being a really good listener, and it puts his mind at ease for a moment.

Will asks more questions than he means to when Tom tells stories, wanting to keep Tom talking so he can keep listening to his voice. Tom doesn’t seem to mind the sound of his own voice or his own laughter, and Will most certainly would never tell him to stop, not when he laughs like that or when he smiles at his own memory. 

Will feels content, happy even, with a cup of peppermint mocha in his hands, with a girl playing acoustic guitar in the back of the shop, with Tom telling him a story about a trip to Italy. He feels like he doesn’t need to worry so much, but then he worries about not worrying so much. He tries not to, he really does, but it all sneaks up on him in the strangest moments. 

Will opens up a little bit towards the end of the night, when the musicians start to pack up and the baristas wipe down the machines. He gives longer answers, and even tells a joke, and Tom’s eyes shine whenever Will says something totally unprovoked. They’re there, talking and enjoying each other’s company and silence until a worker gets up and kicks them out. 

It’s then that they realize they’ve been here for three hours, and neither of them have finished their coffees. 

The walk home is nice. It’s not as cold with a belly full of hot peppermint flavored coffee drinks, and it’s quiet, but in a good way. They can enjoy each other’s presence and enjoy the moon. 

Will wants to step closer to Tom, but when he thinks this, Tom seems to step closer to him. His hands fall out of his pockets, seeming to almost brush Will’s hand with every step that they take. Will wants to take it, hold it, rub his thumb over his knuckles, kiss his knuckles, kiss him. Tom’s voice breaks through his thoughts. 

“Can I hold your hand?” 

Tom’s pinky nudges against the side of Will’s hand, voice quiet. Will looks down at their hands, just barely apart, and he suddenly feels like his throat is dry. He’s aware of all the eyes on the street even though there are only maybe two other people that they’ve passed in the three blocks they’ve walked. He wants to, so badly. 

“Why?”

God, he’s so stupid. He wants to punch himself in the face. _Why?_ Who the fuck asks that? Why is he being so weird about this? He wants to hold his hand too, why is he being so fucking weird? He wants to turn around and walk into the night and lose all contact with Tom. He must think he’s so fucking stupid for asking that. _Why?_ Maybe he likes you, you fucking idiot! Will really wants to punch himself in the face, or jump into traffic, or have God smite him with a lightning strike, any of them would be good, and would get rid of this problem. 

But, Tom doesn’t think he’s stupid.

He _laughs_ , that warm laugh that Will has become all too familiar with over the span of the last few days. Two dates and two nights spent together, Will grew accustomed to hearing it quite a bit. Even if Tom was just laughing at something stupid that he said himself, his laugh was always genuine and sweet. 

“Because I’d like to?” 

Will looks at him, and even in the darkness, with the only lights being the few street lamps that they pass every block, Tom’s eyes are shining. They are warm and round and bright and they are so different from most of the eyes that Will has known over his life. They hold no hatred or anger, they hold no jealousy or wrath. 

They’re simply kind.

For most people, the feeling that Will has when he looks into Tom’s eyes could be compared to something like a warm sunny beach or an ocean of wonder. But, Will’s never liked the beach, and he’s scared of what lurks in the ocean. They’re more like the moon, with their specks of gray, or a coffee shop, with the warmth they give off. 

They’re safe.

It’s been a few seconds since Tom’s asked, but they both feel like it’s been an eternity, and Will suddenly snaps back into his body.

“Oh,” He exclaims, and he uses the hand that’s not closest to Tom’s to nervously scratch at the back head, and he continues, “yeah, absolutely.” 

Tom smiles at him, that row of straight teeth with one little crooked one to the right side, and he thanks him, a genuine thanks. “Thank you,” His voice forms, breaking through the darkness when their bodies drift under the streetlight. Tom takes Will’s hand, and their fingers bump together for a few moments before they’re able to properly lace their fingers together. 

Will has no idea what the fuck he is doing. Is he supposed to say “you’re welcome?” Is he supposed to say _anything_? Is he doing this wrong? Oh, God, his hands are probably extremely clammy right now. He wants to rip their hands apart and wipe his hands on his pants, but Tom would probably find that absolutely repulsive. He wouldn’t blame him. 

He still wants to jump into traffic for asking him _why_ he wanted to hold his hand. 

But, Tom squeezes his hand, and time seems to stop. 

“Don’t worry so much,” Tom tells him, like he could read his mind, but his voice is quiet and calm and gentle and so unfamiliar to Will. He squeezes his hand again, “Your hand is very stiff, you don’t have to be so nervous, Will.” 

Will doesn’t believe that. He believes he has _everything_ in the world that he should be worrying about. He should be worrying about if he’s holding his hand correctly, or if he’s the proper body temperature for hand-holding, or if Tom is doing this because he wants to or out of necessity. Maybe he should be focusing less of his energy on how nervous he is, and start focusing on _fucking talking to him_. 

Will can’t remember if he even said a word during their date. He assumes that he did, and he assumes that he didn’t fuck this up beyond all belief, because Tom is still here. Tom is smart, and Tom is bold, and Tom doesn’t seem like he would be the type to just sit back and deal with people who were awful. 

Will lets out an exhale at the fact that Tom probably doesn’t find him disgusting. 

“Oh, um,” Will’s ability to speak has seemingly vanished along with his ability to have any thoughts that aren’t _I’m holding hands with a cute boy_ or _I’m holding hands with a cute boy and my hands are probably sweaty_ , and he tacks on, “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve never done something like this before, have you?” Tom asks, and he strokes a kind thumb over one of Will’s knuckles. It almost reduces him to a puddle of mush on the ground that Tom could sweep up with his kind words and build back up into a shell somewhat resembling a man. 

Will looks at the ground, tries to count the cracks in the pavement to distract his racing thoughts, “Done what?”

“Been on a date with a man?” Tom asks. It’s not date that Will gets caught up on, it’s with a man. Will doesn’t know how he should take this. His years of analytical study tells him to take this as Tom being insecure, worried that Will is using him to experiment. His somewhat still somehow functioning human brain tells him that Tom is just trying to make small talk, since Will is being fucking incomprehensible with his inability to make fucking words come out of his mouth. 

His distracted brain, distracted by ten thousand thoughts and distracted by ten thousand interpretations of what he means and distracted by how unbelievably soft Tom’s smaller hand feels in his bigger grasp and distracted by the fact that he never wants Tom to let go, tells him to just answer the fucking question. 

“Never dated, period.” He feels like he should be ashamed, somehow. And he suddenly feels small, almost vulnerable, with his hand in Tom’s, telling him this personal answer. 

This answer seems to stop Tom in his tracks. In fact, it does. Tom fully stops moving, and Will doesn’t realize because he’s _still holding his fucking hand_ and he only stops to realize when his arm and Tom’s arm, still connected at their hands, are held up in a straight line. “You’re lying?” Tom asks, and it’s not malicious, it’s not to poke fun, it’s genuine disbelief. 

Will shakes his head.

“I would’ve sworn girls and guys would’ve flocked to you the second they heard you speak,” Tom tells him, and he steps back up to meet him so their arms are back down at their sides. Will wants to say something about how he barely speaks to begin with, but Tom continues, “You’re fascinating, Will. Joe’s always gone on about the brilliant bloke in the classic literature class, but I never expected him to be so…”

“Quiet?”

“Handsome, actually. Handsome and interesting.” 

Will shakes his head, and hides what he probably would be doing in this situation, which would be to immediately start crying, through a teary eye and a laugh. Then, he begins to think into it a little too much. Should he thank him? Should he compliment him back? Is that too forward? It shouldn’t be, he’s only saying the same thing that Tom said to him. 

Before he can think even further into it, Will blurts out, “You’re quite handsome yourself.”

Tom laughs, and it’s that laugh that drew him in. Sweet like summer rain, the pitter patter of droplets on a car window driving down an empty road while the summer rises, a hot cup of tea with honey and lemon with a brand new book, he possesses so many of the qualities of all of his favorite things. “You’re cute,” Tom says, and he looks at Will with a fond smile, “I like that.” 

Will, for a very long time, did not believe in love at first sight. He was a hopeless romantic, for sure, but never love at first sight. He thought it was all storybook nonsense and things to believe in to get you through the day. But, he’s starting to believe that it might actually be something. 

He’s never felt a connection like this with someone. Granted, he hasn’t had a proper, genuine connection with someone in years. He’s never dated, never gone to a school dance, never truly put himself out there. He never thought that there could be someone out there to love him, unconditionally, through all of his quirks and insecurities and needs. 

He’s a hopeless romantic. He’s longed for years for something more. He’s longed to wake up with the one he loves in his arms. He’s longed to lay in their lap while watching some mind-numbing program on the telly, while they crack jokes over it just to make both of them laugh. He’s longed to kiss someone on the forehead when he tells them goodnight. He’s longed to fill that empty space in his bed with someone who held the warmth that he needed.

He can only hope and pray that he can be that warmth to someone else.

He hopes that Tom feels this way. 

When Will snaps back to reality, and he starts thinking about just how far the walk from the coffee shop to Tom’s flat is, Tom’s started walking atop a nearby ledge separating the pavement from a raised patch of land. He sticks an arm out to hold his balance, and Will wouldn’t dare let go of his hand. He has a few inches, maybe four or five, on him now, opposite of before when Tom stood almost five inches shorter than Will. 

He looks down at Will, and with a little laugh and that damn smile, he remarks playfully, “What’s it like being the short one now?”

Will smiles, nervous flocking his mind as he tries to find the right words. He’s far too worried for small talk and jokes have never really been his strongpoint, but he smiles up at him, and steps in closer when Tom wobbles a little bit. He tells him, “It’s a bit strange, but I suppose I could get used to it.”

Tom gives a genuine laugh, one that has him sticking his chin out and sucking back a breath to regain his composure. Tom tries to get down and, out of a need to protect and make sure he’s alright, Will steps forward. This is when Tom decides to use Will’s shoulder as leverage to get himself back onto the pavement. 

Will suddenly remembers Tom’s hand on his shoulder when they first met, and he smiles. 

“I’m right up here, do you need me to call a cab for you?” Tom asks as they approach the house. Joe’s waiting on the porch, actually, smoking a cigarette and having a phone call. Tom shines under the streetlights and he’s so strangely angelic. Will wants to take him gently in his hands and press their lips together, mold them together, taste his peppermint coffee. 

“I’ve got it, thank you,” Will tells him, with a shy smile. 

“I had a really wonderful night tonight, Will,” Tom tells him, and Will looks in his eyes for motive or a punchline or anything else, and all he sees are the blue irises that made him swoon. “I really like seeing you, especially in a place where I can actually talk to you.” 

“This was great,” Will assures him, and wants him to know that he loved this, loved everything about it. He loved the girl who played guitar out of tune and the man who shouted over everyone and the way Tom laughed when he laughed at Will’s jokes and the peppermint mocha and everything about tonight. This was his night, their night. 

He wishes he knew how to vocalize it better. 

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Tom asks, smiling, rubbing his thumb over Will’s knuckles. When Will nods, seemingly awestruck, Tom giggles. “Thank God, I was worried you thought I talked too much.”

“I could never,” Will butts in immediately, making Tom laugh again.

Tom leans in and kisses Will, quick on the cheek. Will’s never felt his face heat up that fast, and he wants to blame it on the cold but he knows it’s not the cold, and he knows it’s because beautiful and funny and caring and amazing Tom has just kissed him on the cheek. It’s amazing, frankly. Will suddenly turns bashful, shy, and brushes the hair out of his face. 

Tom giggles, “Goodnight, Will.” 

“Goodnight, Tom.” 

Tom turned around and headed back up the stairs and into his house. Joe gives Will a wave and Will returns it with a beaming smile. When Joe shuts the door, Will nearly collapses. He wants to scream, shout, run around, sing, smile at people, talk to people. He feels this onslaught of emotions, overwhelming emotions that he’s not entirely used to. One emotion outweighs everything, outweighs the fear and the anxiety and the worry and everything else. 

Joy.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will falls in love with how Tom laughs and looks at him with shocked happiness in his eyes. 
> 
> He never wants to go another day without seeing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will is a cat man this is simply canon at this point
> 
> new tags: napping, watching someone sleep, so much fucking flirting, getting together, the breakfast club brings the gays together, cats

The curtains flutter in the evening breeze, windows open, allowing for a light air flow to drift into Will’s flat. It’s a beautiful evening, and just like every time he’s had a date this month, Will is nervous out of his mind. 

This time, it’s a little different.

It’s not like Will has had to hype himself up to go meet Tom for dinner, or go meet Tom at the train station. It’s not like Will has had to practice dialogue and proper dinner conversation in the mirror to make himself feel better. He’s not going to meet with Tom tonight.

Tom is coming to meet _him_.

Tom texted him, quickly apologizing, but explaining that he was ready already, and was wondering if it would be alright if he came to meet Will at his flat. He explained that it’s a beautiful night and he’d really enjoy the walk, but if he just wanted to meet him later at the pub, that was absolutely fine.

What was Will meant to do? Tell him no on this simple, simple request? Just because he was absolutely freaking out at the idea of actually having a date with such a nice and kind man, who smiled with pearls in his mouth and blushed pink when Will told him that he looked nice and practically giggled with glee at Will’s bad puns and questionable comedy, was he meant to tell him to wait?

He quickly texted Tom back his address, and Tom responded with a heart, a heart that Will overanalyzed out loud while making himself something to eat. 

He sits on the ground, back against the wall, with his dinner in his lap. A little calico cat sits next to him, happily eating a bowl of wet food in an elevated little dish. She purrs while she eats, and Will sits next to her to keep her company. Will eats his chicken with his little friend, a sweet, affectionate cat named Peanut. 

Will started doing this little ritual, a nightly tradition while he ate dinner, of eating while sitting on the floor next to her, almost immediately after he adopted her. She was very shy when she first came home with him, and Will took to sitting near her while she ate. He didn’t want her to feel lonely, much like he had felt before she was with him. It was nice, adding a bit of extra companionship between the two and making their bond stronger. 

She sits in front of her bowl when she finishes, watching her human friend eat. He’s manipulated by her sweet eyes and her little meows into giving her little pieces of chicken. 

“What do you think I’m meant to do?” He asks, to no one in particular, but using Peanut as a form of communication. He hopes that by speaking this out into the world, manifesting it into the universe, someone will strike him with the ability to figure out what to do. “Am I meant to kiss him? This is our fourth date, is it too soon?” 

Peanut does nothing but make noises for more chicken. He gives her a stringy piece. 

“I know I’m probably _supposed_ to kiss him, but…” He thinks a little, and he forces out a harsh laugh of embarrassment, stabbing at the chicken thigh on his plate and shredding it a little, “I don’t know… how to do that, or how to go about _asking_ to do that.” 

He looks at Peanut, at her sweet face and she meows, like she’s trying to respond. Will sighs, “I’m asking my cat for dating advice.” 

She walks closer to him, rubbing her face against his shoe, and Will reaches out with a free hand to scratch behind one of her ears. “I really like him,” He admits to her, and she purrs, “he’s very nice, and very lovely, and I think you’ll like him.” She goes up closer to him, closer to his hand, and presses a paw to his plate. He shakes his head, “You’re greedy _and_ unhelpful.” 

She mewls and Will almost frowns because she actually sounds sad. He apologizes with a piece of the chicken and a scratch underneath her chin.

There’s a knock on his door that jolts him back into his body, and his sudden movement causes Peanut to start wandering back to her bowl. He places his plate back down next to him, and when he gets up, she immediately wanders to it. “Not yours,” He scolds gently with a _pss_ noise.

There’s another knock when he opens the door, and Tom almost ends up knocking on the center of Will’s chest with his consistency. “Sorry!” Tom apologizes with a smile. He’s wearing a blue denim jacket with a light pink hoodie under it, and his hair is slightly damp, probably from a recent shower, and his curls are drying so they rest in front of his forehead, and it’s so casual but Will can’t help but admire him for a moment too long. He’s adorable. 

“You look…” Will’s brain pauses. What word is too far? Is anything too far? Should he tell him how handsome he looks? Should he say he’s gorgeous, like he really feels? “You look really cute.” Cute? Is that the best word he can come up with? Is at too… cutesy for him? 

But, Tom laughs a little breathlessly, and he goes a bit pink, and he smiles, “You look cute too!” 

Tom looks behind him for a moment, and sees a little flash of white fur behind Will, as Peanut begins to paw at Will’s dinner again. His eyes widen and a bigger smile graces his face. “Do you have a cat?” He asks, and Will looks at the pure joy that fills his eyes and how he gently rocks on his feet. 

Will nods, “Y-Yeah! Her name is Peanut, would you like to meet her?” 

“More than anything would I like to meet this little angel.” Will almost starts to tear up and lean in to kiss him at the same time.

But, he keeps it together, and he nods with a smile. “Please, come in,” Will steps inside and extends his arm, leading Tom inside. 

“Why, thank you, good Sir,” Tom laughs, slowly taking off his jacket. Will wants to offer to take it to hang it up but he psychs himself out, and Tom neatly places the denim jacket on the chair, with a little bit of a rush as Peanut continues to paw at the chicken on the plate. She picks up a shredded piece by catching it on her nail and eating it. 

“Hey!” Will gently scolds again, another _pss_ noise. 

“Is that her dinner?” Tom asks, even though it’s clearly not, and Will almost slaps himself in the face. 

“Uh, no, not exactly.”

“...Were you eating dinner on the floor?” 

Will wants to apologize for doing something strange but he sees how Tom smiles at antic with his row of beautiful teeth and how his cheeks raise happily and he tells him the truth. “I, uh, yeah, yeah I was. We, um, we usually eat dinner together.” 

“Why do you do that?” Tom asks, genuine curiosity, as he approaches the cat, chowing down on the chicken. 

Tom crouches in front of her and gently extends a hand for her to sniff at as Will explains. “I just didn’t want her to be lonely when she ate,” His voice is quiet, trying to avoid rejection and being mocked, but Tom is delighted.

Tom laughs sweetly, as Peanut rubs her face against his hand. He’s delighted by this little thing that Will does for someone, not even a person, but a little cat. He loves this display of kindness and compassion, and it’s obvious in the way that he looks at Will over his shoulder, eyes wide and cheeks pink. “Can I join you two for your little dinner date?” He asks, gently petting the cat’s head. 

“Absolutely.” 

Will’s response is immediate, complete with a frantic nod, and he almost cringes at himself for being so quick to answer. He really doesn’t want Tom to think that he’s strange or think that he’s pressured into doing this, but he pushes those fears back a bit and goes back to join him. Tom adjusts his sitting position to sit flat on his behind, and Peanut continues to rub against him. 

Will joins them on the floor, going back to his dinner that surprisingly isn’t full of cat hair. He gently picks at the room temperature chicken, and Tom pets Peanut gently. “Aren’t you such a pretty girl?” Tom coos at her, petting down her back. 

She purrs happily in response, pressing a paw against his knee. 

Will falls in love with how Tom laughs and looks at him with shocked happiness in his eyes. 

He never wants to go another day without seeing that. 

“How long have you had her?” Tom’s sweet voice breaks through Will’s distracted thoughts, which had somehow jumped from going on this date with him to daydreaming about kissing him under the moonlight. 

Will looks at him a moment, and blinks, before his brain jumps in with a dramatic _He’s talking to you, asshole!_ He clears his throat, and Tom smiles at him, hand still distracted as he pets Peanut. “Well, uh, I adopted her a few months back,” Will starts, trying to bring a memory back in his brain that is too distracted by Tom’s beautiful smile, “because the shelter she was at was doing those free shot things if you adopted? I wanted to get a cat for a while, and when I met her, it was almost an immediate connection.” 

“That’s so sweet!” Tom tells him, absolutely beaming with excitement over Peanut and that , “Isn’t that sweet? Isn’t your dad the sweetest?” He asks her in that baby voice that people tend to talk to animals with, petting her little head, and she meows happily in response. Will smiles, flushes a bright red in embarrassment, and Tom notices. Tom always notices. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, Will,” He assures him, reaching for him and placing a gentle hand on his knee, “I think it’s very sweet what you’ve done.”

“Thank you,” Will answers plainly, but his voice drops to just above a whisper, as he fills with absolute adoration for Tom, and for his kindness, and for how he treats him, and for what he’s done for him. Tom may not notice it, and Will may never tell him out of shame, but Tom’s utterly changed his life in the past few weeks. 

Tom had so much affection to give, so much love in his heart for the world and for everyone in it, and the fact that Tom was interested in giving this affection to Will of all people, really shook Will to his core. 

“Thank you,” he whispers again, but it’s for an entirely different reason. 

“Do you want to just stay in tonight?” Tom asks, and Will’s head picks up from his fixated gaze on his own twiddling thumbs. He looks at Tom, and his kind eyes and his seemingly permanently pink cheeks and his button nose and the loving aura that he gives off, and he gets lost in it. Tom continues to talk, “I’m not really in the mood for either of us to pay fifteen pound on a beer each, and plus,” he gestures to Peanut, who has taken a liking to laying in his lap, “I’m kind of stuck here.”

Tom wants to stay? Tom would rather spend a night inside on such a gorgeous evening, based on his own words, than go out? Tom wants to spend a night inside on Will’s kitchen floor, just petting his cat and talking to him. It’s this moment that Will begins to realize that Tom might be feeling the same way he does.

Maybe Tom sees this going far, much like Will does. 

“I’d love that,” Will answers honestly, and Tom’s smile glows like stars. 

Tom looks at the curled up cat in his criss-cross sat lap, and he laughs. “How do you figure I’d be able to move from here to your couch without disturbing the little angel?” He asks Will, playfully teasing as he brushes a thumb on Peanut’s forehead. 

Will feels comfortable, safe even. “Sorry, Tom,” He begins, and Tom’s head picks up, slight worry on his face, but it melts into a genuinely bright smile when Will continues, “I can’t help you there, she’s claimed your lap as her seat for the evening. You’re meant to live on my kitchen floor now.” 

“Oh, what a shame!” Tom bellows dramatically, putting the back of his hand on his forehead and throwing his head back, as a Shakespearean actor would portray a death. 

“Let me help you there,” Will murmurs, and then he’s scratching on Peanut’s back, patting her gently, until her head picks up with a little _brr?_ sounding noise. She wanders off of Tom’s lap and over to Will, sniffing at him for a moment, before heading off into the living room. Will smiles, “You’re free!” 

Tom claps gently when he laughs, genuine joy, and he stands up, with another dramatic bellow of, “Thank you, my saviour!” 

Will picks up his plate after he stands and gently gestures to his living room, “Help yourself, and could I offer you a drink?” 

Tom smiles, “Surprise me, I drink everything but stout, it makes me ill.” Will nods in understanding, storing the information away for future reference if he ever needed it. 

Will walks his plate over to the counter when Tom goes inside, and he hears him happily babbling to his cat. He reaches for a tupperware container, and starts to think, something he does way too often for his own liking. He, once again, comes to the realization that he has absolutely no clue what he is meant to do on this date. 

He worries if he doesn’t kiss Tom tonight, Tom might take it as disinterest. He’s worried that if he makes the first move, Tom might not be ready or he might not know what to do to properly kiss him. He’s worried that if Tom makes the first move, he might worry that he’s pushing this onto Will. 

What if Tom didn’t want this to be anything more than casual? Would he have even come in if he didn’t want to take this further than casually seeing each other. I mean, he’s met Will’s cat, and Will likens that to the idea of meeting a child. The really silly part of his brain tries to convince him that he’s only seeing him to see his cat, but he remembers there are millions of cats in this fucking world and Tom only just learned that he had a cat. 

There’s too much to be worried about in this moment, and Will really, really, really does not want to fuck this up. 

He dumps his dinner in a tupperware container together, promising to return to it but knowing he’s likely going to forget about it and throw it in the bin in a few days. He soaks the plate, cleans it quickly, and leaves it on the dish rack to dry. 

He fishes two glasses out of his cabinet, two pint glasses, though he’s not sure what he’s got to drink. He opens the fridge and crouches to properly see inside of it. In his peripherals, he catches sight of a half empty bottle of Zinfandel, and he grabs it. He pours the two of them a proper amount, about half a glass, and stores the bottle back in the cold fridge.

Armed with two glasses, he wanders into the living room to see Tom on his knees. One hand is stroking Peanut’s belly (something she almost never lets anyone do, but he supposes that Tom is an exception), and the other is looking through his DVD rack. “You’ve got a lot of fine choices,” Tom remarks, fingertip dragging through the titles and over the spines of the cases, before taking one out and looking over his shoulder, looking at Will, “This is one of my favorites.”

Will barely registers what movie it is. He’s too focused on the look Tom gives him over his shoulder, eyes that ocean blue color, with so much blue in them that Will is surprised he’s not swimming in them already. His cheeks are still pink, and match his light hoodie. He flicks his hair out of his face, both of his hands too occupied to go and fix it. 

“It’s a great one,” Will replies, “W-We could watch it, I mean, if you’d like.” 

“Too much of a downer for a date, maybe another day?” 

Another day. 

Holy shit. 

Tom wants this to go further. How much further, Will isn’t sure, but further. He wants to go further enough to watch a sad film together! This isn’t exactly something to normally get excited about, but Will sees it as a milestone. He can see Tom leaning into his side as they’re both crying over a film, and Will sees it as he puts it away; it’s one of the Disney films, and his mind doesn’t exactly register which one, but Will is a mush, so he knows that he would absolutely cry. 

“Sounds good to me, pick something out to watch, if you’d like.” He steps properly inside of the living room, and places the two glasses on top of some coasters. 

“Do you have any preferences?” Tom asks, eyes following Will as he crosses the room, listening with intent. 

Will shrugs, “I like everything there, it’s all about what you’d like.”

Tom laughs, “I suppose you do like all these films, why else would you have them?”

“To make my collection look bigger,” Will jokes, takes a nervous sip from his glass. 

“I guess buying films you don’t like would do that,” Tom adds, making Will chuckle delightfully into his glass. 

It’s only a few more seconds before Tom picks up a case with a glimmer in his eyes. “Is this alright?” Tom asks, holding the case by the corners, like he’s showing it off. It’s _The Breakfast Club_ , an utter classic, and one of Will’s favorite films. Will nods, and Tom smiles widely, going over to work at Will’s DVD player. 

Will does not ogle him when he bends over, as much as he sort of wants to, which makes him feel a little gross. He instead gives his attention to Peanut, who jumps up on the armrest of the couch next to him. He beckons her over with his fingers, wiggling them, before booping her gently on the nose. 

Tom’s back in his seat when the film’s main menu screen pops up, and Will scrambles looking for the remote. He finds it, and clicks the play button. 

It’s then when he realizes just how close Tom is sitting next to him. 

He’s nursing his glass of wine, taking small but consistent sips, and sitting close enough to Will so that their thighs touch. Will tries so hard not to stare, but that little bit of pressure between their two bodies is so much, it’s so nice, and he doesn’t expect it at all. He stares down into his glass of wine for a moment, but looks at their thighs in his peripherals. 

Tom has nice thighs. 

Will’s noticed this before, but now he can’t stop noticing it. 

He sips his wine to distract himself. 

Tom makes small comments over the film, but Will laughs a bit uncharacteristically loud when he points at a young Judd Nelson and says, matter-of-factly, “This is the man who made me realize I was attracted to men.” 

“Really?” Will asks, with a slight laugh still lingering in his voice, “I never expected you to be the one to go for bad boy types.” 

“I was like, fifteen when I first saw this film, Will,” Tom laughs, shaking his head, “lots of things have changed.” Tom takes a sip of his drink, and asks, “Who made you realize you were attracted to men.”

Will has no fucking idea. “I have no fucking idea,” He laughs, but then clarifies, “I do have a distinct memory of being attracted to Anthony Michael Hall in this film.” 

“No fuckin’ way.” Tom laughs brightly, turning his head to properly look at him, and then he raises his glass to clink it against Will’s in a toast, a form of solidarity, “To us, for being attracted to the guys in _The Breakfast Club_.” Will smiles, and completes the toast, clinking their glasses together. 

By the time the film has reached the scene where John Bender receives eight weekend detentions, Tom has started to doze off. When Vernon has left the room, he’s fully asleep, head lolling to the side and onto Will’s shoulder. 

Will has no idea what to do.

He feels like how Tom felt when Peanut climbed into his lap: he cannot move. He doesn’t want to move, but he doesn’t know if he should. He doesn’t want Tom to be embarrassed when he wakes up that he fell asleep in the middle of their date. He wants him to rest, he kind of wants to move him into his bed so he can properly rest, but that’s likely too far for their current relationship. 

So, he sits there. Calm, and cool, but the exact opposite of calm and cool. He can feel his hands get clammy again, and he tries to subtly wipe them on his jeans without stirring Tom. When he wipes his right hand, Tom makes a little noise in his sleep, and Will immediately stills. 

Alright, can’t do that. Can’t wake him up. 

He should just watch the movie. Yeah, that’s a good distraction. 

He should watch the movie, that will definitely distract him from the beautiful boy asleep on his shoulder. He will definitely be distracted enough by Molly Ringwald and her gang of misfits long enough to not notice how soft Tom’s breaths are. He will definitely be distracted enough by the goth girl in the film to not notice how Tom seems to try to nuzzle closer to him. He will definitely be distracted by John Hughes’ masterpiece to not notice how Tom snores lightly, and how cute he is. 

He wants more than anything to wrap his arm around him, to let him cuddle closer into him, to hold him and protect him and make him comfortable, but he doesn’t want to overstep a boundary. He’d rather do anything than make Tom feel like he’s being pressured into anything or make him any shade of uncomfortable. 

But, he can’t help but look at him.

He looks at his pretty parted lips, and his little nose, and his long eyelashes (which almost seem impossibly long from the angle he looks at him at), and his bouncy curls, and his pink cheeks, and he wants to kiss his forehead so badly. 

Tom’s body twitches when a montage begins with a loud song, and he slowly wakes up. He lets out a little yawn, before looking up at Will. His eyes go from sleepy to shocked to content, and he gives him a little sleepy smile. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs, “I’ve ballsed this up, didn’t mean to fall asleep, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Will assures him, as Tom continues to lay on his shoulder, body still waking up from his short, unexpected nap, “Not at all, you didn’t mess anything wrong, love, I promise.” The pet name slips from his lips unexpectedly, and he can’t tell if Tom noticed or not, but he does see how Tom’s shoulders release the tension they were holding. 

They look into each other’s eyes for a moment, a moment too long to call it a look, but rather a meaningful gaze or even a longing stare. Will feels like he can see his reflection in Tom’s pupils, and his cheeks heat up. They’re so close. If Will leaned in just a little bit, they would touch noses, and if just a little more after that… 

“Can I kiss you?” Tom’s voice breaks down all the thoughts in Will’s head, voice so soft and gentle and covered with a layer of vulnerability that Will’s never really heard from him before. Tom’s hand goes up to gently touch Will’s jaw, and Will closes his eyes at the soft touch, a touch so foreign but so needed, so loved, so desired. 

“Yes, please…” 

Tom picks his head up off of Will’s shoulder and leans in slowly, and meets Will’s lips in a slow connection. The first thing that Will notices is that Tom’s lips are incredibly soft, and Tom holds his jaw in a soft and gentle but firm hand, like he would slip through the cracks of his fingers if he let him go too soon. 

Will doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but he follows Tom’s lead. Kissing isn’t hard, at least he thinks he’s doing okay. He basically mimics what Tom does but mirrors it, matching up with his lips. He always thought it was corny when people compared fitting lips together like puzzle pieces, but it’s moments like this where he thinks all the romantic comedies in the world have been right. 

He plants a hand on Tom’s cheek, and it’s when Tom pulls away that he realizes something. 

Tom’s eyes flutter open, and he smiles shyly, and touches Will’s hand on his face. He takes it off slowly and holds it in two of his own. “Will,” Tom says, softly, like speaking too loud could alert other people of their existence and destroy this moment in time where nothing matters but the two of them, “you’re shaking.” 

Will looks down at his hand, his actually trembling hand in Tom’s light grasp, and he laughs a little. 

“Am I really that scary?” Tom asks with a smile, trying to break down Will’s nerves with a joke, something he’s always been good at. His thumb goes up and brushes against his blushing cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” Will apologizes immediately, eyes avoiding his gentle gaze and leaning into the touch of his hand on his face, “I didn’t mean to, you’re just… y-you’re so beautiful.” 

Will’s never seen Tom go from cherry blossom pink to fully ripe cherry red in his cheeks so quickly. “You’re beautiful,” Tom adds, voice soft, and he means it, he means every word, and Will feels every word in his chest. Tom’s words make him feel strong, make him feel good, make him feel like he could do anything. 

Will can do anything.

He leans in and kisses Tom again, soft against his lips. Tom chuckles a little and kisses him back, moving his lips slowly against him. One hand on his jaw, and the other on his chest, and Will cups his head like one would a fine jewel, and kisses him like he’s the only meal that can cure his starvation. 

Will’s the one to pull away this time, with a light huff of breath, and Tom smiles wide at him. “You’re so sweet,” Tom tells him, and Will blushes, pressing forward so their foreheads rest together, and they can stare into each other’s eyes. Tom’s eyes shine with the beauty of a thousand jewels and the color of every ocean and he’s worth more than every painting in every museum. 

Will could stay in this moment forever and be happy. 

Tom goes back and lays his head on his shoulder, Will’s shaking shoulder that slowly relaxes. Tom looks up at him, just barely moves his head to look up at him. Will’s too focused on the fact that that just happened to really look anywhere else but the wall in front of him. Tom laughs, and he takes one of Will’s shaking hands in his own.

He fidgets with his fingers to bring him back to reality, and Will snaps back almost immediately, looking down at Tom. Tom asks, sweet and kind, “Was I your first?” 

“Kiss?”

“What else, Will?” He asks with a laugh, and he reaches up his head a little more and kisses him on the cheek. 

Will shrugs, adds a little nervous laugh, and scratches the back of his neck, “I mean, y-yeah, you could call it that.” 

Will had never kissed anyone. Not ever drunk enough at a bar to do it, never was close enough with any of his friends to jokingly kiss them, never kissed a girl on the playground in primary school, never really had this considerably big moment in his life until now, at the ripe age of twenty-three. 

“So, I was your second, too?” Tom asks, with a gentle smile, and that somehow makes Will’s entire body relax. These little jokes that Tom throws around when Will is nervous to distract him from the things that make him nervous or take him out of the moment make him feel incredibly grounded. He feels safe with Tom, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time with a person. 

Will smiles, “Yeah, you were.” 

“Can I be your third?” 

Will’s already leaning down to kiss him again. Tom’s laugh is intoxicating when Will’s lips press against his, and Tom rests his hand on the center of Will’s chest, helping their position from their awkward angle. “Thank you,” Will murmurs against his lips, over and over. Tom silences him by pressing their lips harder together to make both of them laugh. 

When Tom pulls away, he murmurs, “I should get going, so I don’t fall asleep on you again.”

 _I wouldn’t mind_ is what Will wants to say. _You could stay the night_ is what Will wants to say. _You can sleep in my bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa_ is what Will wants to say. _Please stay_ is what Will wants to say. “I can call you a cab so you don’t have to wait for the train,” is what Will says. 

Tom smiles, almost shy at Will’s offer, and he shakes his head, “It’s alright, don’t worry about it.” 

“I’ll walk you out,” Will insists, standing up, and offering Tom his hands to pick him up off the sofa. Tom chuckles under his breath, and takes his hand, helping himself off of the cushiony and relaxing spot he claimed. 

“I had a really, really nice time,” Tom tells Will as he follows him out and to the door, and he means it. His voice is relaxed and meaningful, and kind and giving, and Will wants to kiss him again and never stop. He wants to kiss him everywhere. “I’d like to do something like this, again, if you don’t mind,” Tom asks, picking his coat up off of the dining chair. 

“I’d love that,” Will adds on, never a fan of going out to pubs. Too crowded, too loud, too much going on around them to truly focus on what was going on in their conversation. His flat was more calm, less noise except for his occasionally loud neighbors. 

Tom stands by the door, back to it, when he smiles up at Will. “Thank you, Will, this was lovely.” Peanut trots into the kitchen, following Will, likely in hopes for a treat. She weaves herself between Will’s legs, meowing for attention. Tom sees her and smiles, crouching down to her level and giving her a scratch on the head. “It was lovely to meet you, Peanut!” He coos at her, and she purrs against his touch. 

When Tom comes up to Will’s level again, he swallows back a nerve and blurts out, “What do you want us to be?”

This question takes Will by surprise. “Pardon?” He asks dumbly. 

“Us, y’know,” He gestures dramatically between the two of them, “us. Do you expect this to be casual or long-term?” 

Before he can even answer for himself, he blurts out, “What do you want?” He wants this to be long-term so badly. So badly. 

“That’s not what I asked, Will,” Tom tells him gently, “I want to know what you want to do, I know what I want.” 

He’s right. Will needs to give him a straight answer if they’re going to take this on a long-term ride. “I-I really like you, Tom,” Will starts, and Tom’s neutral face twitches into a little bit of a grin, “I’d really like for this to be long-term.” 

Tom lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” he laughs, “I really like you, too, Will, I really loved the time we’ve spent together, and I can really see us doing this for the long haul.” 

“Is this you informally asking me to be your boyfriend?” Will asks, and it’s the most genuinely forward thing he’s ever asked of Tom.

Tom laughs, and he blushes a little and ducks his head and scratches at his neck, “I guess I am. Will you?” 

“I’d be happy to.” 

Tom practically jumps for joy and he stands on his toes to kiss Will again. A short kiss, but not any less passionate, and Will places a hand on Tom’s cheek and holds him gently, never wanting him to run through his fingers. Tom pulls away, and he whispers, “Fourth.” 

Will can’t help the giggle that escapes his lips. 

“I’ll see you again?” Will asks. 

“Of course you will,” Tom says, stroking his cheek with his thumb, before gently adding, “boyfriend.” 

Will almost melts. “I’ll see you then, boyfriend.” 

Tom laughs warmly, and kisses him again, a mumbled, “Fifth,” against his lips.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Will's not afraid of the ocean anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter has references to past child abuse (physical and emotional) and just overall is sad. please continue with caution!!! 
> 
> new tags: past child abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, reassurance, hair petting

Will has come to the realization that he thinks movies that are longer than two hours should not exist. 

He loves film, he really does, but watching _Boyhood_ at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday is making him question that. He does not care about this family, or this story, or these… anything, he just really does not like this movie. Which answers as to why he’s falling asleep in the middle of it.

Tom sits next to him, his arm thrown around Will’s shoulder, pulling him a little close so his head rests on Tom’s shoulder. It’s the most comfortable Will’s been in a long time. 

“Do you like this?” Tom asks, and for a second, Will can’t tell if he’s talking about laying on his shoulder or not, but then he sees how Tom is looking at the television screen with furrowed eyebrows, “Is this boring or do I just not get it?”

Before Will answers, a little yawn escapes his lips, “This is boring, there’s nothing to get.” 

Tom laughs, and looks over at Will, at his sleepy eyes and how he’s seeming to force himself to stay awake for this movie. He blinks slowly, and yawns again. Tom frowns, “If you’re tired we can stop, I hate this too.” 

Will shakes his head, “If you want, I’m just tired.”

Tom props Will up for a moment, and Will looks at him, a little confused. Did he do something wrong? Did he push some boundary, or somehow insult this film that Tom already admitted to not liking? 

He blinks, furrows his brow, and before he can open his mouth to speak, Tom is patting his lap. “You can lay down if you want,” he offers, and Will almost forgets how to think.

He looks at his boyfriend’s lap, and then transfers that gaze back to Tom’s face. Tom’s smiling, that perfect smile that Will swears he’s never going to get tired of ever, he’s never going to get sick of seeing it when he picks Tom up from work or his flat or on the tube. He’s certainly never going to get tired of seeing it in his own flat. 

“You’re sure?” Will asks, like he’s afraid of overstepping on something that Tom has already offered, not adding anything else. 

Tom rolls his eyes in feigned exasperation, “Of course I’m sure! Now, come here.” His smile is warm, inviting, safe. 

Will accepts.

He shifts his position on the couch, for both of his legs to be propped up on the three-seater sofa, and he stretches across it, filling each seat. He lays his head delicately in Tom’s lap, and Tom’s hand immediately goes to rest on Will’s upper arm. This is a place that Will has gotten used to Tom touching. He often held it if Will’s hand was occupied with an item or a coffee cup while they were walking the streets.

Even though he was used to the touch, it still made his heart skip a beat every time he felt that warm, familiar hand on top of him. 

“This alright?” Will asks. 

“Are you comfortable?” Tom answers his question with a question. 

_More than comfortable_ is what he wants to say. “Yeah, feels nice,” Will murmurs, his eyelids already feeling like they’ve gotten ten pounds heavier in the few seconds that it’s been. 

“Good,” Tom replies, and he gently strokes his shoulder. It’s soothing, calming, and makes Will feel like this is something he’s missed out on all these years. All these years where he felt alone, all these years where he craved someone to hold him, to tell him these sweet things that he didn’t feel like he deserved, are suddenly filled with Tom’s gentle touch. 

Then, Tom’s hand moves from his shoulder into Will’s hair. 

The touch is immediately grounding, it immediately makes Will’s entire body wake up, and his eyelids no longer feel as heavy. Tom’s hands are gentle, combing through his locks and twirling bits that have gotten a bit longer since his last haircut. It’s so foreign to him, a gentle touch that he has never known that Tom will seem to get him to fall in love with, like every other touch Tom has given him. 

It’s so foreign, but it’s also strangely familiar, in some way. 

Tom then opts to stop combing and gently rubs his fingertips up against Will’s scalp, his soft fingers working through his hair that he’s suddenly worried about being too greasy or too dry or just not as good as it can be. Will sighs, a contented sigh that makes Tom let out a delighted little giggle. “Does that feel nice?” Tom asks, his voice is soft, light, airy. 

Will can’t find words, but he can nod. 

It’s so different. It’s something he’s always wanted.

Will grew up in a household that never really showed physical affection, especially not to the men. They viewed affection for men as a way to soften them up, something that Will’s military father didn’t want for his sons. Will can’t remember the last time he hugged his mother, or the last time his father told him he was proud of him. It was heartbreaking, especially growing up as a teenager. 

When Will knew he was attracted to men, he hid it. He knew his family would never understand it. He’d be pushed aside and it would be brought up only as a convenient insult during heated arguments. He’d only be queer to them when it was to mock him. It makes him shudder at the thought.

Will’s had more interesting and more meaningful conversations with baristas at coffee houses and librarians than he has with his family. 

He’s never really had a stable place that he could call home, or wanted to call home, for the matter. Home was never the four walls that held together his childhood house. That wasn’t a home. Home didn’t have screaming or shouting or throwing things, and home didn’t expect him to find a place to stay for the night when certain people in the house weren’t in the mood to deal with him. Home didn’t tell him he was worthless, or call him things that were too awful to repeat, or raise a hand to him. Home didn’t make you count the days until you turned eighteen and save every single coin so you could get out of there as soon as possible. 

He doesn’t know what home feels like, but he knows it’s not that. 

He’d say home feels like a hot cup of tea and an old book, but he doesn’t feel like that’s it either. Maybe he’d call that feeling an old friend. Something that was nostalgic or relaxed him, something that reminded him of something he could call home. He’s felt more at home with strangers in a library late in the night than he ever has in a house. Dusty pages and hushed discussions were worth more to him than any house ever could.

Until now, he thinks.

This might be what home is. This is what he’s wanted his whole life. 

He’s dreamt about this for years, his entire life, maybe even. He’s dreamt about being cared for and tenderly touched and delicately handled. He’s dreamt for the day that someone, anyone saw any sort of resemblance of a person who deserved love and kindness. He’s worked on giving himself that love and kindness that he knows he deserves for years, but it gets heavy. 

He’s found home. 

He thinks this is what home feels like. Home is Tom’s hand in his hair, petting him gently, soothing him to sleep on a Saturday afternoon. Home is Tom’s soft laugh. Home is not feeling like he has to run and hide. Home is not flinching when Tom goes to touch him. Home is having Tom over at his flat, late into the night, until Tom falls asleep in his bed. Home is waking up before Tom mornings after he stays the night and Tom grabbing at him to get him to come back to bed. 

He’s finally found a home that suits him, that he loves. 

Will starts to cry.

It’s quiet at first, but with the quietness of this fucking movie, this movie that they’re still fucking watching despite being dreadfully boring, Tom is quickly able to hear it. His thighs shift underneath Will, in a quick display of tension in his body, trying to figure out what to do. He keeps petting his hair, which makes Will want to cry harder. “Hey, Will,” Tom whispers, “Will, wake up.”

“‘M not asleep,” Will replies, barely audible.

“Are you crying, honey?"

When Tom asks this, his voice is soft and concerned and loving, and he's tucking hair behind Will’s ear, and Will is embarrassed suddenly. He’s worried that Tom will see him as less of a man, as less of the person that he’s tried so hard for years to be, and he sniffles. Tom’s touches stay gentle, something Will doesn’t expect, despite knowing deep in his heart that Tom would never do anything like that to him. “Why’re you crying, honey, c’mon, talk to me.” 

Tom helps Will roll from his side to his back, and he peers up at Tom through watery eyes, and Tom’s face is so soft. He looks at him like he wants to help, like he wants Will to be okay. And it makes Will sniffle. Tom’s soft thumb goes up to Will’s cheek, and Will shudders out a breath when Tom wipes away a stray tear. 

“Movie get you going? Ya big softie?” Tom goofs around for a moment, trying to get Will more comfortable to talk about what’s making him upset. Something that no one other than Tom has ever done before. This makes Will’s eyes produce more tears, and they roll down the side of his face from his lying position. 

Will shakes his head, still trying to find his voice, still trying so hard to find a way to tell Tom what he’s thinking without thinking he’s silly or pathetic. “Do you want to talk about it?” Tom asks, and Will nods, and Tom understands. He pets his hair again, soothing Will’s tense body as another shuddery breath escapes as a little sob. Tom’s heart aches for him, he can tell in the way his fingers tremble when he touches him. He feels bad about it. “Take your time, love,” Tom tells him quietly. 

Will wracks his brain looking for something, anything to tell him, to get him to understand. He’s never told Tom about his parents, or his family, and honestly, he didn’t plan to do it like this. He didn’t think he was still this affected by the things that he’s gone through. But, then again, he tries not to think about it.

He definitely didn’t expect something Tom did to trigger a reaction like this. 

“Hey,” Tom whispers, breaks Will out of his thoughts that he can already feel spiraling. All Will can focus on is Tom’s soft voice, and his gentle hand in his hair, touching him like he’s the most precious thing to exist on this earth, and the fact that Tom has turned the television completely off. Will looks up at him, looks at those blue eyes that really are his home, and Tom tells him, “I’m not mad at you, it’s okay to get emotional, and you don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” 

Reassurance. 

This makes Will cry harder. 

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry!” Tom replies, a bit surprised, and he wipes his tears with a thumb, “Oh, no, I didn’t mean for that to happen, I’m sorry!” 

“No, no, it’s silly,” Will tacks on, finally finding his voice when he needs to comfort and reassure Tom that he hasn’t done anything wrong, “I’m being silly.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” Tom asks, and Will wants to grab him, hold him close, never have him leave. He wants Tom to be there forever. 

He shakes his head. 

“Do you want me to go and make you some tea?” He asks. 

Will shakes his head. “Don’t have any tea bags,” he says. 

“Do you want me to just sit here with you?” Tom asks, “I can definitely do that, don’t need to get anything from the kitchen to do that.”

Will laughs a little, but it comes out sounding sad and forced, and Tom rubs his free hand along Will’s tummy, another soothing motion. Will shuts his eyes and breathes, focuses on the feelings. The softness of Tom’s thighs under his head, of Tom’s hand in his hair and on his stomach, of the coldness of the air in his flat. He steadies himself. 

He looks up when he’s no longer crying, and Tom smiles at him. “There you are,” he says affectionately. 

“Here I am,” Will says, and he sounds disappointed, like he thinks Tom is stuck with him. Tom leans down and kisses him on the forehead. “I suppose I… owe you an explanation?” He adds.

Tom shakes his head, “If you’re not ready to talk, we don’t have to talk, it’s okay.” 

“No, no, you have to know,” Will tells him, and he shifts a little bit so he can elevate himself a bit on the armrest of the sofa. Tom’s hand does not leave either of its positions. “I’m very… not used to the whole… affection thing?” Will adds, and he cringes at his own voice and how it breaks at the end and how he even has to fucking say this. 

“You’ve told me that, you’ve told me I’m your first… everything.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s… a bit more to that,” Will starts to explain. He wants to sit up, not bother Tom with the weight of his body that will only get heavier with his words. Lying down makes him more vulnerable, he _can’t_ look away from Tom even if he wanted to. He gestures vaguely with his hands, up and down, side to side, looking for his words. 

Tom doesn’t stall the petting of his hair, rather, he goes for twirling the long bits at the top, trying his hardest to make him feel most at ease, most at peace, most safe and most comfortable. It simply makes him feel worse, somehow. His body relaxes at the touch, but his mind screams at him. _Run away! Get back! It’s only a matter of time before he goes to hurt you!_ Tom looks at him, like he can hear these thoughts, and brushes his hair back, “It’s alright, you’re safe. You take all the time that you need, love.” 

Will sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, mostly to prevent himself from starting to cry again. God, he feels pathetic. He starts to babble before he can stop himself, before he can decide to just brush it aside. If he’s going to do this for a long time with Tom, then Tom needs to know. “When I was growing up, it wasn’t a very… stable household, to put it lightly.” Will starts, finishes the thought with a laugh to try to calm himself down, “There wasn’t a lot of affection, especially not towards the men.” 

Tom nods, continuing to pet his hair. 

“There was never a place I wanted to call home. I never did call it home.” Will wants to bash his head into the hardwood floor. Pathetic, bad, terrible, these are the only things he can think of to call himself. “I knew more about the woman who took my order at the coffee shop a few blocks from my house than I’ll ever know about my mother, and frankly I’ll know more about anyone I ever meet than I’ll ever know about my father.” 

Tom’s eyes soften, as if to say _I’m with you_ and _it’s okay_ and _you’re safe_ and _things are better now_ all at once. His hand stays put, Will’s eyes flutter shut so he doesn’t have to look at him. So he doesn’t have to see the disappointment that he fears will be there. 

“Whenever I needed affection or comfort or anything of the sort, it was pushed aside. I was told to just grow up and get over it myself. Men don’t need affection, they give it. Whenever I was shown a hand, it was never a kind one.” Will can feel himself about to cry again, can feel how his throat tightens around his words like he’s trying to choke himself on them, like he’s terrified of the world hearing them. 

He goes up to wipe his tears that threaten to escape his closed eyes, but Tom’s already got a kind thumb there, gentle swipes to get rid of them. Then, Tom’s speaking, voice soft like cotton, voice that he’s come to learn the ins and outs of, voice that he’s still trying to learn means _safety_. “You don’t have to keep talking, I understand.” Tom assures him, hand gente on his face, caressing, reminding him that he’s safe and that he’s no longer back there. 

“I’m still trying to teach myself and learn that _I_ deserve the affection that you give me. And, that your hands will only give me affection.”

Will opens his eyes when he says this, no longer afraid of seeing Tom disappointed. He’s rather scared of seeing Tom take pity on him, and treating him as fragile. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Tom to feel like he has to change anything. But, there’s no pity in Tom’s eyes. There’s fondness, maybe even love, and that goddamn ocean people see in them.

Maybe Will’s not afraid of the ocean anymore. 

“I know it might not do much, but I promise you, you will _never_ get anything but the affection that you deserve from my touch. I love being able to be so physical with you, Will. I love giving you physical affection, because you are worthy of all of it. I want to hug you in every room, kiss you under the stars, hold your hand and take you around the world with me. I want you by my side, with my hand in yours or my hand on your shoulder. You deserve everything good that you’ve been given, and you deserve better than what you have been given.”

Will wants to cry at Tom’s kindness, but instead, he rolls onto his side. He buries his face into Tom’s tummy, tears staining his light colored shirt, and Tom keeps up his affection, never once dimming it. He runs one hand through his hair and the other down his side, humming lightly. Will laughs a little bit into his shirt, at how this scene must look. A grown man crying into the stomach of another grown man. He must look ridiculous, but with Tom’s hands treating him so kindly, it’s almost like he doesn’t care.

“I’m going to stay the night, okay?” Tom asks but it’s more like he’s telling him, like he would take _no_ for an answer but he wouldn’t be thrilled about it. Not like Will was going to tell him _no_ anyways. He nods into his stomach. “I’ll order us some dinner, and we can just have a nice night here, at home, okay?” 

_Home._

Will nods.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom’s arms are safe, and his heartbeat is the music that brings him back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: will has a bit of an anxiety attack in this chapter, it is in public and entirely internalized, read with caution if that may trigger your own anxiety!!!
> 
> new tags: anxiety attacks, cuddling and snuggling, pet names

Spending one night together that day turned into once a week, then twice a week, then four times a week, then Tom had a drawer of things in Will’s place, then Tom had a dresser, then Tom basically stopped going back to his and Joe’s flat all together. 

It was quite lovely. Tom put up succulents in his windows and tidied up his house (he, frankly, had never noticed how dirty it had become when he was living on his own.) Tom even got a cute little cat tower for Peanut to climb up and scratch at and sleep on to put in the living room. “So she can join us on our movie dates, and have her own little seat!” Tom justified the sixty pound purchase. 

Will was delighted with it. 

It’s become a lot more quiet in Will’s head with Tom around. It’s almost never quiet anymore, which Will deeply appreciates. His brain no longer fills in silence with bad memories, or triggers, or terrible thoughts, because there’s no silence left to fill in. Will can fall asleep to the sound of Tom talking. It’s safe. It’s finally safe.

But, there are still bad days. Bad days always sneak up on him when he’s least expecting it. 

There’s a particularly long day of classes after a particularly bad night of sleep. There’s a test he doesn’t feel at all prepared for. His teacher goes to pat him on the shoulder while complimenting him on an essay when he turns in his test and he flinches and he spends the rest of the class worrying if he saw him. There’s a delay in trains. There’s an upsetting news story on one of the suspended televisions in the station. It rains while he walks home. 

The train ride is the hardest part. 

It’s luckily not crowded, which he thanks God for. He snags a seat and can put his messenger bag in his lap and try to focus on his breathing. But, with less people, there’s less noise, aside from the screeching of the train. It’s practically unbearable. Will sits with his nails digging into his wrist, not enough to draw blood, and not enough to distract himself entirely from his racing mind. 

He can’t stop thinking about his teacher going to pat him on the shoulder. God, he feels fucking pathetic. He feels like a defenseless loser. God, he’s fucking stupid. He knows this man would never hit him, especially not in a setting like that, a public setting. He can’t remember the rest of the class. All he can remember is how he saw the anger of his father in that nice old man’s eyes. 

He shuts his eyes on the train, and breathes heavily. 

Tom’s not here to talk to him, to tell him about his day and about the couple he had to wait on who he almost spilled water on and about the girls who dined and dashed but left a large tip so he pretended like he didn’t see anything and about anything that happened that day. Hearing anything come out of Tom’s mouth would probably be instant relief for his brain, to quiet his thoughts and push back his fears and memories and replace them with new ones.

God, Tom probably thinks he’s using him. 

Tom probably thinks he’s using him simply as someone to vent to, as someone to hear him, not as a boyfriend. What has Will done for him that’s so fucking great anyways? What has Will done to warrant him staying. Christ, for all he believes, he’ll get home, and Tom will have left without so much as a note. He’d probably deserve it. Tom deserves better than him. Tom deserves someone who can love him as much as he loves. 

Will’s too fucking anxious all the time to love Tom in the way he deserves. Tom deserves someone who can work up the courage to kiss him in public and not worry about if someone will see them. Tom deserves someone who can initiate being held. Tom deserves to not have to rely on the only affection he gets being the affection he gives.

He’s so worried that Tom’s only with him out of pity. It’s almost as if he sees himself as a lost puppy. He worries that Tom has found him, beaten up and bruised and scarred, and because his heart is too big for his body, he couldn’t pass him up. He’s worried that when Tom realizes how much better off he is without him, Tom will leave.

But, he wouldn’t blame him. 

He wouldn’t blame Tom for leaving. He’s always been told by friends that he’s not broken, and that he doesn’t need to be fixed, because he is wonderful the way that he is, but he can’t help but feel like shattered glass on the pavement when all he can think about is how much better off his boyfriend that he thinks he loves and who he prays loves him back would be if he left him. 

These thoughts plague him until he leaves the train.

The walk in the rain is strangely therapeutic, like it’s washing away his sins and his fears. He forgot his umbrella, but standing in the rain at the corner waiting to cross the street feels nice on his skin, heated from raised anxiety and embarrassment and shame. He focuses on his breaths, his steps, the people who walk past. He still fears for the worst when he walks into the flat. 

He gets home right before nine at night, and he shucks off his sweatshirt. He gathers it up in his hands, rings it out a bit in the sink, and enters the bedroom.

Tom’s laying on the bed in his boxers, well, actually, they’re Will’s boxers. He’s laying on his side, playing with Peanut. She’s trying to chase his fingers, grabbing at them and biting them when she gets a hold on them for long enough. Tom laughs a few times, followed by a muttered, “Ow!” when she scratches at him and breaks the skin of his hand. Tom hears the door open, and looks at Will. “Welcome home!” He greets with a smile.

Will forces a smile that he feels looks real, but he notices how Tom’s face drops when he returns the gesture. 

He’s hanging the soaked garment over the shower curtain rail, watching it drip into the bathtub, without so much as a word to Tom. Tom’s scrambling up on the bed, to sit proper and look at Will. “What’s wrong?” Tom asks, and he knows, Tom always fucking knows when days are bad. 

Will shrugs, feeling rather pathetic, much like he had in the past, much like he hadn’t in a few weeks. He wants to curl up into a ball and die, throw himself out the window, just simply cease to exist. He hates it when Tom sees him this way, he fucking hates it. He hates feeling like an inconvenience, he hates it when his brain tells him that Tom lives here simply for the cheap rent, he hates it when his brain tells him that Tom’s here for a long con, to humiliate him at his most vulnerable. 

“No, it’s not,” Tom shrugs his shoulders to finish the part of his sentence, “you’re upset, softie, what’s wrong?” 

There’s that pet name. The name that makes Will laugh and feel loved and feel cherished, but right now it makes him feel like he’s being mocked, being told he’s weak. He shivers at the thought, and he just shrugs again, not wanting to push all of his thoughts onto Tom. Tom doesn’t deserve that. Tom doesn’t deserve carrying around Will’s shit. Tom shouldn’t have the weight of Will’s issues on his shoulders just for Will to be able to stand up a little straighter. 

“Come here, you’re upset,” Tom scoots over, opens his arms, and beckons Will over with his hands. 

Will wants to cry. He fears so bad that he’s somehow forced Tom to do this. He fears so bad that he’s somehow manipulated Tom into loving him. He knows in his heart that he hasn’t, but that fucked up part in his brain tells him otherwise, tells him that he’s horrible, and bad, and fucked up. Will can hardly think, but he’s choking out, “Are you sure?” 

Is Tom sure? Will can’t figure out what he’s thinking, but he can see it in his eyes. He can see it in his eyes. The confusion and the inability to process what Will has even said to him. Is Tom sure? Of course he is, why wouldn’t he be sure? God, something like anger flashes in Tom’s eyes, a bitter moment where his pupils center and dilate. Will thinks for a second that it’s at them, but he thinks, he truly tries to think, to push back that anxiety and that fear of what Tom _might_ be thinking to what Tom probably _is_ thinking. 

Tom is probably thinking of how much he hates those who have made Will feel like he doesn’t deserve the affection Tom is offering. He’s probably thinking about how much he hates the people who have made Will think that he needs to make sure that Tom is okay with giving him comfort. He probably hates the people who have made Will so unfamiliar with the love and affection that such a kind, golden soul like him deserves. 

Tom’s eyes change to one of love, soft and slow blinks. 

“Get comfy, come on, come here,” Tom says, softly, arms still open, “get yourself undressed, I’m gonna make you forget about all of those bad things.” 

Will visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop and he exhales, a breath he didn’t know that he was holding until Tom had spoken oxygen back into his lungs. He strips himself slowly, shakily, kicking his shoes off and ridding himself of his damp t-shirt and soaked jeans. He lets them gather in a pile on the floor, a pile that he will deal with later. 

He climbs into bed next to Tom, and Tom looks at him a moment. His arms are still open, and he widens his eyes, as if to say _well?_ Will looks at him, at his beautiful boyfriend with a heart that beats out of his chest and every single star in his eyes with all of the constellations on his face, and he gives a soft smile, almost shy, like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

Will climbs into Tom, laying his head on his chest, and letting Tom cradle him. He’s got an arm around his shoulders, his hand cradling his head, and the other around his torso. Will presses close to Tom’s chest, breathing in his scent, something particularly Tom, so familiar, so much like home. Will lets a leg fall between Tom’s legs, tangling them together like they were meant to fit. Will was meant to have his chest riding the curve of Tom’s body, and Tom was meant to have Will’s head in the center of his chest. They complete each other. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Will whispers, “I think I’m too drained to do that. At least right now.” 

Tom strokes his shoulders, running fingers over acne scars and birthmarks and freckles, “That’s perfectly alright, don’t worry. Just gonna hold you, yeah?” Tom asks, and Will nods, burying his face back into Tom’s chest. They’re silent for a few seconds before Tom adds something, something important. “But, if something happened, and you got… reminded of all of those bad things, I’m here. You’re safe. Nothing can get you.” Tom’s voice is like water at the end of a dry, thousand mile walk through the desert. He’s so grounding. He’s kind. He’s completely serious. 

“Nothing can get you,” Tom says again, making sure that Will _hears_ it. He wants Will to hear it, not just listen to it. “If anyone ever tried to get you again, they’d have to go through me too, alright?” Tom says, a bit of a smile teasing at his lips. 

Will looks up at him, head still on his chest, and tears welling up in those blue eyes. He nods, and he buries his head into Tom’s chest. “You’re home, handsome, you’re home,” Tom tells him. Will could cry, in fact, he nearly does. A tear threatens to escape his eye and drip down onto Tom’s chest, but he lets out a shaky breath that helps him catch himself. 

Tom’s arms are safe, and his heartbeat is the music that brings him back home. 

Will goes silent for a moment, and his mind doesn’t fill the silence with bad thoughts or memories or triggers. He’s too occupied in everything that is _Tom_. His presence overwhelms his senses. His smell, his body heat, his soft skin, his voice, everything about him makes him feel so much more relaxed. 

Tom is safe. Tom is home. 

“Are you alright, teddy bear?” Tom asks, tightening his hold around Will’s shoulders. 

Will gives his first genuine smile of the night, and whispers sleepily into his skin, “What’re you callin’ me teddy bear for?”

“Can you blame me?” Tom asks, teasing a bit, and he runs a hand down Will’s back, “I get to hold you every night, and you’re all soft, and you’re all mine, and you’re clinging to me. You’re my teddy bear.” Will giggles, gentle and tired, coming back to himself. He breathes in Tom’s scent, the one that fills the house, and he presses gentle kisses against his chest and the top of his belly. 

“Like it when you hold me like this,” Will admits, trying to press impossibly closer into Tom, to try to mesh with him into one being, into one entity, to be his forever. 

“Yeah?” Tom asks, kissing the top of his head, “Then I suppose I should do it more often?” 

Will sleepily nods, the remnants of his anxiety ridden brain trying to scream at him that he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be letting himself be so vulnerable with Tom, that Tom could turn around and hurt him at any second if he really wanted to. But, Will feels how gentle Tom’s hands are on his back and his shoulders, and how Tom whispers confessions of love into his hair like he wouldn’t be able to hear him, and he pushes the anxiety away. 

Tom doesn’t cure Will’s anxiety, and he doesn’t make all of the bad days go away completely, but he does damn near enough to make Will think, no, _know_ that everything will be okay.

It will just take time. And they are willing to give each other all of the time in the world. 

They fall asleep like that, tangled in each other.


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing he wants to do is wake Will up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gay people (-:
> 
> new tags: baking, i love you, dreams

Tom always finds it difficult to fall back into a comfortable, restful sleep after he wakes up in the middle of the night. It’s never something that wakes him up, just his body deciding that it’s time to rise, typically at the most inconvenient hours. After falling asleep with Will that night, just before nine-thirty, Tom’s internal clock wakes him up at a little past three in the morning.

He shuffles out of bed, out of Will’s slight grasp on him that he tended to keep during the middle of the night, as slowly as possible. The last thing he wants to do is wake Will up. 

He gets out, one foot after the other onto the carpet, and he stands. He cracks his joints, stiff from sleep, but he feels overall rested. He wanders out of the bedroom slowly, slowly, careful not to open the door too fast or close it too hard. Then, he’s in the kitchen, and Peanut is trotting up to him. 

“What’re you doin’ up, silly girl?” He questions her, like she can answer, and she weaves through his legs as a response. “C’mon, let’s do something, you wanna do something, angel?” He asks her, and she meows, following him as he walks towards the pantry. She continues to weave through his legs, meowing for some sort of attention.

Tom sighs, happy, and crouches down to her level. “You want up?” He asks with a soft smile, and she meows with what seems like positivity. “Alright, up you go,” he murmurs, gentle hands going under her soft belly and picking her up. She immediately takes a liking to putting her claws into his bare shoulder, pulling herself up, and perching herself on him. “That fucking hurt, you little bastard,” he says to her, but he can’t stay mad for long, because she’s bumping her head against the side of his face. He giggles. 

“Your daddy had a really rough day,” he tells her, quiet, like the walls are listening. She makes a noise, and Tom keeps talking, and Will is right, talking to her does make his thoughts flow out easier, “I should do something to surprise him, yeah?” She purrs, and Tom smiles, “Yeah, I’ll make him something.” 

Tom’s mind is always most productive and most active right when he rises, so it is no surprise that suddenly, at three-fifteen in the morning, Tom is shirtless in their kitchen, with a cat on his shoulder, gathering all of the ingredients from their freshly stocked pantry to make banana bread for his boyfriend. 

“He’s always liked banana bread,” he reasons the sudden baking with Peanut, and he gestures to the bananas on the counter, “and those are just about the right amount of over-ripeness.”

He brings the flour, sugar, and baking soda over to the counter, before crouching a bit. “You need to get down,” Tom tells Peanut, patting on the counter, and she makes a little noise of seeming protest before Tom adds, “c’mon, sweet pea! Get off!” Peanut jumps onto the counter and sits pretty by the sink. Tom drops all of the ingredients off with a slight thud, and he cringes, hoping he’s not being too loud. 

When Tom opens the fridge to retrieve the eggs and butter, he talks to Peanut. “You have no idea how lucky I am, sweet thing, to be with your dad.” He can’t believe he’s talking to a fucking cat this early in the morning while making banana bread for his boyfriend, but he thinks Will’s just brought that out in him. With all of the little things Will does for Tom, Tom thinks this is the least he can do. 

“He’s always so good to me, so kind,” he tells her, “but, I think you know that. You’ve seen how he treats me. It’s… amazing, to see something that lovely, and that kind, and that deserving of love give me his entire heart. I love him, Peanut, I hope you’re okay with that. I’m not trying to steal your dad away from you.” Peanut purrs happily, and Tom scratches her gently underneath her chin with a smile. 

Will pays such good attention to Tom and to his needs and even safety. Will always waits for Tom’s cab or for the train to come to make sure that Tom gets on to work without any problem. Will always makes sure to text Tom and asks him to call or text when he’s at work to make sure he gets there safe. Will always has the type of milk that Tom can drink in his fridge, even before they officially moved in together, after Tom made an offhand comment about his lactose intolerance. Will’s got several hoodies of his own in Tom’s side of the closet because he knows that Tom loves to wear them. Will genuinely makes sure that everything is comfortable for Tom before he makes sure of anything for himself. Tom supposes that it’s his love language, and it touches him whenever Will does anything for him. 

He wishes that Will recognized that he can show himself that same type of love. 

Making banana bread is… easy enough. He mashes a few bananas in a bowl. Peanut goes over to try to lick the mashed up bananas in the bowl, to which Tom shoos her away with a gentle pss noise. He mixes some brown sugar and flour in another bowl, beats two eggs together in another. He doesn’t realize until far later than he expected that he is going to have a _lot_ of dishes to do. He groans a little, but recognizes that it’s all worth it when all is said and done. He puts a bowl into the sink. 

“Shit!” Tom nearly shouts when he drops the smaller mixing bowl that he mashed the bananas in into the sink with a little too much force and a little too high, hearing it crash when it collides with the metallic inside and the other dishes. Peanut hops off the counter, as if nothing happened, and wanders out of the kitchen. “Shit,” Tom mutters again, hoping that Will hasn’t heard and hasn’t woken up. He has class early in the morning, and needs his full rest after a really bad day. 

But, Will wakes up. 

Will wakes up and Tom can hear him rummaging around in the drawer, and Tom sighs, almost sounding like defeat. 

“What’s all the noise?” Will’s sleepy voice asks, sounding almost nervous, as he opens the bedroom door and enters the kitchen. He’s wearing one of Tom’s hoodies, not one of the hoodies Will’s given him, but one of the hoodies that Tom moved in with. It fits him well, and Tom can’t help himself but stare for just a moment too long. He’s gorgeous, Will is. His sleepy, messy hair and his heavy eyelids and his long, toned legs and everything about him that makes him look utterly exhausted, after being woken up with such force, makes Tom’s heart ache to go over and hold him, kiss him, snuggle him back to sleep. “What’re you lookin’ at me for?” Will says with a hint of a teasing smile.

Tom returns the smile, and suddenly he can feel the remnants of flour on his face. With a spoon covered in batter, he moves his hands like a witch might, and whispers, “You’re dreaming! Oh! Go back to sleep! This isn’t real!” Tom turns around to go back to mixing the batter, and Will lets out this sleepy little laugh. One that has him rubbing his face and almost covering his mouth. Tom’s enchanted by that sound, by everything about him. 

Will stays.

Will comes further into the kitchen, seemingly to go into the fridge, but he doesn’t. Tom thinks he’s going to try to take one of the used forks he hasn’t put in the sink and eat the mashed banana off of it like he’s done before, but he doesn’t. Tom thinks he might just get some water from the sink and go back to sleep, but he doesn’t. 

Will slots himself right behind Tom, and wraps his arms around his stomach. He presses his chin right on top of his shoulder, leaning so that Tom’s soft stomach presses into the counter, holding both of their weights. Not that Tom minds. Will’s almost like a weighted blanket, with his warmth and comfort, and Will sighs, happily. 

“What’re you making?” Will asks, his voice losing that bit of sleep that remained in it. 

“Making you banana bread,” Tom tells him, looking to the side to catch Will’s eyes. Will raises his eyebrows, smiles at him, warm and inviting, and he buries his head into Tom’s neck. He breathes in his scent, like he’s trying to make sure that he’s real, that he’s here, and Tom can feel Will’s smile against his skin. 

They remain like that for a moment, the only sounds being the wooden spoon against the metallic mixing bowl as Tom scrapes the sides of it to evenly mix the batter. It’s comforting, it’s really sweet. 

Tom knows how much this means to Will, how much it probably took for him to be able to come up and put himself in what he would see as a vulnerable or even weak position and hug Tom without Tom having to initiate it. He presses a gentle kiss into the crook of Tom’s neck, and laughs when Tom smiles. Tom knows Will likely is too sleepy to care about what’s happening, or about what he’s doing, but he’s just happy to have Will there. He’s happy that Will is real, and that he’s been this blessed to have him in his life. 

Will says something, and Tom swears time stops. 

“Thank you for everything.”

His voice is sweet, quiet, almost buried from Will’s position of having his whole face in Tom’s neck. Tom almost drops the wooden spoon, almost starts to cry. He can’t properly in this moment tell someone what that means, but he knows it means a lot. He can feel it in his chest. Will whispers it again, like he’s trying to permanently imprint the words into not only Tom’s skin but his own voice. 

Tom doesn’t know how to respond, or even if he should respond. But, he whispers, “You deserve it.” 

Will laughs, not doubting, not mocking, not anything to put himself down. He just… laughs. An expression of genuine joy and happiness, that Tom never wants to go another day without hearing. He knows it’s hard, he knows things can be hard when you go through everyday feeling these terrible things. But, he loves Will, he _really_ loves Will. He opens Will understands that, and most importantly, believes it. 

Will does. Or, at least he’s starting to. 

Will whispers, “I love you,” into the crook of Tom’s neck, almost like he doesn’t want Tom to hear it, but he does. Tom hears him, and he cherishes that voice, the voice he hears everyday. He cherishes those words, words that he does not often hear but he does not have to hear often in order for him to know that they are true. He smiles, and leans his head on top of Will’s. 

“Is that right?” Tom asks, teasing, and Will laughs warmly. A laugh that makes Tom’s cheeks heat up and his body go all warm and tingly. He never, ever wants to forget what that laugh sounds like. Will tightens his arms around Tom’s tummy, pulling him closer, impossibly closer, as if he’s trying to become one with him. He kisses affectionately at the curve of flesh between Tom’s shoulder and neck, where his face is buried.

“You know I mean it,” Will murmurs, mouth still buried in Tom’s skin, almost embarrassed of his affection, his want to give it and his want to receive it. 

Tom lays the spoon in the bowl, allowing for some excess batter to drip off of it, and he turns to face Will. He looks up into those sleepy, blue eyes, and Will’s leaning down before he can even think of reaching up and kissing him gently on the forehead. Tom giggles with glee before wrapping his arms around Will’s neck, and pulling him down. 

Will avoids kissing Tom on the mouth for as long as possible, opting to kiss him everywhere else he can reach, everywhere else that he absolutely adores. His forehead, his button nose, his paint splatter freckles, even his fluttering eyelids. Tom can’t stop giggling like a madman, and Will simply pulls him into a tighter hug, burying his boyfriend’s head against the center of his chest much like Tom had done for him earlier that day. 

“What’s got you all lovey-dovey right now, teddy bear?” Tom asks with a smile, wrapping his own arms around Will’s waist.

Will sways the two of them in their kitchen, seemingly to a song that only exists in his head, and he says, louder, “I had a glorious dream.” 

“What was the dream about?” Tom asks, looking up from Will’s chest to meet his eyes when Will’s gaze falls down to him. Will immediately smiles and Tom notices how his pupils dilate when he looks at him, and it makes his insides go hot and his cheeks go even hotter. He, in joking shyness, buries his head back into Will’s chest. 

Will keeps swaying them, “You were in it.” 

Will doesn’t say anything more, simply keeps his arms around him. His arms around him say so much more than Will thinks he could ever say. Tom doesn’t think he’ll ever stop thinking about that. Tom doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way he feels in this moment. He’ll never forget how his heart seems to skip a few beats in pure adoration, and how he squeezes Will tighter, kisses over his clothed chest. He wants to feel Will, forever, he wants to stay in this moment forever. 

If God came down, and suddenly all time stopped, and Tom could only live in this moment, where Will’s arms were around him and he could feel his warmth and his love and his fingers grabbing at his back and he could hear the way that Will hummed a song that he’s not sure exists, he would be okay. In fact, he would likely be delighted.

“I love you too.” Tom’s voice is quiet, like only the two of them exist in the world. This is something only for Will, and Tom will say it until each of them forget the foreign feeling of not knowing how to tell someone they love them. 

“Yeah?” Will asks, and a tinge of nervousness comes through his voice, and Tom’s heart almost breaks. 

“Yeah, I love you, so much.” 

Will’s body sways with so much more freedom, like a fifty pound weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. Tom looks up at him and Will releases him, purely so he can lean down and kiss him, cup his jaw with his hands and brush at his cheeks with his thumbs and kiss his lips. Tom’s always thought Will tasted like mint and semi-sweet chocolate and smelled like morning rain. That taste and scent lingers with this kiss, but he feels so much more like himself, more natural, more _Will_. 

“I love you,” Will says, louder, clearer, that weight seeming to lift even further off of his body, releasing his vocal cords and allowing him to say whatever he feels without fear of rejection or ridicule or regret. “I love you,” he can’t stop saying it. 

“I love you too,” Tom assures him, but he wants Will to keep saying it, so he never has to forget how it sounds. 

“Come back to bed?” Will asks, and Tom sees his eyes grow softer, sleepier, and they remind him of a puppy. Puppy eyes. Fucker. 

“I’m in the middle of something, teddy,” Tom tells him, and Will pulls him back into his arms, cages him in his grasp, and Tom laughs breathlessly. 

Will effortlessly moves them away from the kitchen and through the bedroom door, picking Tom off of his feet slightly. Tom laughs with such genuine glee and joy that it nearly moves Will to tears. “Wait, wait, let me go box up the fucking batter and I’ll come back to bed,” Tom laughs, “or Peanut is going to eat it. You know she will eat anything.” 

Will sighs, a fake disappointed sigh, and he releases Tom. “Fine, but come back?” Will asks, and Tom kisses him quickly, reassurance. 

“I’ll only be a few seconds.” 

Tom practically runs into the kitchen, takes out tupperware, and spoons the batter into it. He seals it, silently wonders if this batter will go bad overnight, and throws the storage container into the fridge. He fills the used mixing bowl with water and soap to let it soak overnight, and shuts off the kitchen light. 

In the light of the moon that streams through the flat window, Tom can see Will clearly. Will is laid back on the bed, hoodie discharged on the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, and he reaches his arms up, forming and deforming fists to beckon Tom to get back into the warm bed with him. He makes literally “grabby hands” towards Tom, and Tom smiles so wide and so genuinely. 

He jumps into bed, landing next to him, before pulling Will into a tight cuddle, burying his head against Will’s chest. Will pulls a blanket over both of them, and kisses Tom on the top of the head. 

“I love you,” Will whispers, already drifting off to sleep. 

“I love you too,” Tom whispers back, kisses him in the center of his chest. 

Tom has the same wonderful dream that Will had that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for following me on this journey of this big gay fic!!! i had so much fun writing it and i absolutely loved it!!! i hope you loved it too!!! :-D


End file.
